Mouthfuls
by beautifulxxxchaos
Summary: I remembered pushing the door open to the warehouse, the sound of shouting, screaming, something hard and unforgiving pressed against my back. A gun, of course.- Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock. M for a reason. Case fic. Violence, blood, gore, sex, some non-con parts later on. Just be warned. It's not all rainbows and butterflies. Developing relationship. Title from Gabriel Gadfly poem.
1. Chapter 1

The sight of blood blooming across the front of my shirt probably should have been worrisome. Instead, it seemed like a mild inconvenience. There was pain, sure, somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, but it was disconnected. I couldn't quite remember what had caused it. We had been on a case, something about a drug ring that was getting increasingly more violent. I remembered the chase, frantically searching for Sherlock because he had, once again, run off on his own. I remembered pushing the door open to the building, the sound of shouting, screaming, something hard and unforgiving tearing through my back. A bullet, of course.

But it didn't seem to matter all that much.

Well, that was, until Sherlock brought his hand down across my face.

"John. John, listen to me. You need to stay with me. You can't do this. You can't die on me. I just got you back, don't do this. Don't do this to me. I need you. Damn it!"

It was all black from there on, but the memories started to come back. Perhaps that was a good place to start.

It was a cold autumn day, the sun already starting to dip low beneath the rooftops. I pulled my jacket closer against my body, ducking my head into the collar to help protect my face against the breeze. It was only a 20 minute walk back to the flat, back to 221 B, where I knew Mrs. Hudson would have built up the fire for me. I owed her so much, especially considering that the past two years had been almost as difficult on her as it had been on me, but only almost. She hadn't tried to drown herself in the Thames, slit her wrists, or take a few too many sleeping pills in hopes of killing some of the pain and herself as well (if she was lucky). I should have known about the cameras in the flat the first time Mycroft pulled up in his black car, his men carrying me out of the flat, tourniquets pulled tight around my arms. I was grateful, looking back, that I had forgotten the proper way to pull the knife across my skin. I was also happy that I only took 15 sleeping pills instead of the 40 that had would have killed me for sure. It was something that I wasn't proud of, the attempts at giving up, but the failure was something I learned to live with.

It had been two years since I had watched Sherlock Holmes, the single most important person in my life, toss himself off the roof of St. Barts, only to land sprawled on the pavement below.

I didn't remember much of that day. I didn't remember much of the following 6 months, if I was honest, since most of it was spent contemplating falls from structures of various heights, the right dosage of pills, what knife to use, and that was when I wasn't ensconced in the bottom of a bottle. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... They all tried to pull me out of it. It wasn't until Lestrade showed up at the flat, his face betraying his anxiety, and presented me with a case, that I felt any forward momentum at all. Solving a case was something I could do. I had seen the battlefield with Sherlock Holmes, just as his brother said I would, and I didn't regret a moment of it. It would come in handy for whatever Lestrade wanted him to solve.

The case was simple, one that I was sure the Yard could handle on its own. The thought that it was a handout didn't dull the excitement, the moment of triumph when I realized the man had been killed by his lover when the other man discovered that all promises of the victim leaving his wife were a clever ruse to keep him enthralled. It was open and shut, easy, or so I thought. It wasn't until I looked at Lestrade after examining the crime scene and telling him what had obviously happened that I noticed the look of shock and awe on his face.

"That was brilliant, John, honestly. You've only been here for about 5 minutes, and all that... Amazing. I'll tell the others, we'll bring the bloke in for questioning, but with what you gave us, it's more than enough to find the evidence we're looking for. Thanks. Do you need a ride back to the flat?"

"No. No, I'm fine." I left, ignoring his worried expression, and walked the 4 miles back to the flat, allowing the cold to numb my mind and my limbs.

I didn't leave the flat for two weeks.

Lestrade started showing up with cases on a more regular basis after he realized they were the only things that would get me out of the flat, focused on something else besides all the potential ways to kill myself. I knew what he was doing, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I realized, in the midst of a particularly difficult case involving the abduction of three young children, that if I closed my eyes, I could hear Sherlock's voice guiding me along the right path of my own deductions, asking questions that I wouldn't have thought to ask. There were times where that was the only thing that got me through.

It was when I started considering trying cocaine, just to see what he had been talking about, that I realized I had a problem. I had taken a sabbatical from the surgery, and I knew that I needed to get back to it. It would provide me another outlet for my frustration, my excess energy, so I approached Sarah. She seemed genuinely grateful to have me back at all that she didn't even question me when I said I wanted to take as many hours as she could offer me. I worked and I solved cases and I tried not to think about the fact that Lestrade had returned my gun to me after I had been at the surgery for a month and showed actual signs of improving.

I was almost ashamed at the act I was putting on, pretending that I was okay when I obviously wasn't, but I realized that I was not the worst person in the world. No, there was no way I was nearly as bad as the person I came home on that cold autumn day to find sitting on the couch, running rosin over the bow to his violin, something I had kept in the exact place he had left it, only opening the case once or twice to run my fingers over the wood and mourn the loss of its beautiful music and the beautiful man who had coached out the melodies so skillfully the entire flat ached with the notes. No, I would never be that terrible.

I turned and promptly walked back out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson was crying, Mycroft called after me, but there was nothing from the man himself. I thought I saw something along the lines of guilt run across his face, but that couldn't have been accurate. There wasn't a single bone in that man's body that could feel an emotion as complex and painful as guilt.

It took me three days to return to the flat. I had rented a cheap hotel room, bought way more alcohol than the liquor store should have sold to me, and I spent three whole days convincing myself that I had finally gone crazy. After all, how on earth could Sherlock Holmes be sitting in my living room when I had watched him die? When I had taken his pulse and found it had stopped? I ran out of alcohol at 2 in the morning on that third night and staggered home, remembering the bottle that I still had kept in the kitchen. There was no way it had been real, so I had nothing to worry about.

I was so, terribly wrong.

I should have turned and left when I opened the front door and heard the first pulsing notes coming from up the stairs. I should have left when I opened the door to the flat and saw the shadows dancing across the lithe frame, clad in one of his classic suits, a form that I thought I was never going lay eyes on again. I should have left before he stopped playing and the silence stretched between us in a way that was more painful than anything I had done to myself in his absence.

"John."

That one word was all it took. Something broke. I grabbed him by the lapels, slammed him against the wall, held him there while I drew back my fist, and the only thing that kept me from hitting him was the fact that I realized I was actually feeling him, that he was actually there, and that I was certainly not hallucinating. He was real.

I let go of him and took one step back, then another, shaking my head to clear my vision, for surely this couldn't be real. This couldn't actually be happening. He couldn't be there, not after all this time, all the pain I had gone through, he couldn't have been there.

"John."

"You bastard. You fucking bastard. How dare you?"

"John, you have to listen to me. I did what needed to be done-."

"Oh, is that so? Do you know what you did to me? Do you know what you put me through? Sherlock I-. Fuck."

I turned and, to keep myself from hitting him, punched the wall. My fist made a dent, and the dull ache that radiated from my hand helped clear my thoughts.

"I did it to save your life," Sherlock said. "There were snipers, it was me or you and Mrs. Hudson and Greg, and I couldn't-," his voice caught and I looked up, finally met his eyes, and saw pain there. "I had to make it convincing, John. I couldn't let anyone know. I couldn't even tell you, no matter how much I wanted to, and John? I did want to. Every second I spent away from here, every second I spent hunting down Moriarty's men, I wished you had been there with me. I wished it could be different. I needed you there, but I also needed you alive. I couldn't risk you while they were still out there. As long as you thought I was dead, you were safe. I needed that security so I could do what needed to be done."

"You could have trusted me."

"I needed you to be convincing. I needed it to seem real."

"It was real, you bastard! I stood at your grave and I cried and I prayed and I begged, because you were dead! You have no idea what you did to me. You wanted me alive? I almost didn't make it."

"I do know, John. I was the one who had Mycroft watching after you. I needed to know someone was looking after you since I couldn't. He agreed."

"He knew? No, never mind, of course he knew. Who else did you tell?"

"Molly was the one who helped me orchestrate the whole thing. Her access to the lab and the morgue at Bart's was crucial. It was just the two of them."

I remember being shocked that Molly had managed to keep her lips sealed on the matter, but it wasn't really that surprising. People did strange things to help Sherlock Holmes. I was a prime example.

"Why did you bother coming back? What makes you think I want you here?"

I was pleased at the flinch he responded with. "I finished my mission. I dismantled Moriarty's web, took down every last person who was out to kill you because of me, and I wanted to come home. I needed to come home." He swallowed and looked away. "If you want me to leave, I will. I... I didn't realize you would be this upset."

"You didn't realize-?"

I took another step back, inhaled deeply, counted to 10, and exhaled slowly.

"You're a fucking idiot, and I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive you for this, but this is still your home. I'm not going to kick you out of it."

He looked up again but I couldn't meet his gaze. The alcohol fueled daze was almost completely gone, and I found myself suddenly aware of how disgusting I felt, both physically and mentally. I needed to shower and sleep.

"I'm sure you've already seen, but your things are all in your room. I think there's food in the fridge and tea in the cupboard, so help yourself. I haven't really rearranged anything."

"There's still more you want to say. Why don't we get it out of the way?"

"No. The truth is, if I stay in this room with you a second longer, I'm probably going to hit you."

"I wouldn't mind."

I laughed, bitterly. "For some fucked up reason, I would. I'm going to shower then sleep."

I made my way into the bathroom, peeled off the disgusting clothes I was still wearing, and climbed under the spray of the shower, set to its hottest temperature. I didn't even make an effort to cover the sound of my sobs.

When I came out of the bathroom, wrapped only in my robe, it was to find Sherlock standing at the window, looking out over London. He stopped playing when the door opened, and I found myself suddenly missing the sound.

"I made you tea and toast, and you should also drink a glass or two of water if you can stomach it, just so the after effects of the alcohol won't be as bad when you wake up."

I nodded a response, even though his back was turned toward me, and made every effort to shut off all of my thoughts as I drank the tea slowly to go with the toast, then quickly drank two full glasses of water, knowing that he was right.

"Sherlock..." I said, my foot on the first stair tread leading up to my bedroom.

He turned and looked at me, his gaze shuttered and obviously hiding his emotions. "Yes, John?"

What was there to say? I hate you? I'm pissed off? I missed you? Can you sleep next to me because I need to know that you're real and actually here?

I settled for something a little less damning.

"I wouldn't mind if you kept playing."

He looked at the violin he was still holding then back at me before bringing it back up to his chin. I had already turned and started up the steps before the first notes spilled over me. It was Chopin's Nocturne, played in E Minor, one of my favorites.

I fell, blissfully, into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks were nothing short of a dance, each of us trying to find a rhythm that worked again. It took me an entire week to stop jumping when I entered a room and he was there, another before I could properly go through the motions of small talk without storming out and not giving him an explanation of my actions. I went into the surgery early, left late, and Sarah, lovely, kind Sarah, didn't even comment on those three days where I simply hadn't shown up.

I felt like I was in that moment just before you drift off to sleep where everything is hyper focused and you are completely aware but dreaming at the same time. I wasn't sure if I wanted to wake up, but I also wasn't sure I could handle the dream for very much longer, not with how tense it was. 221 B was my haven, it was where I went when I couldn't handle the world, and then he was there. I had nowhere to go, so I forced myself to deal.

It was Lestrade, bless him, who stepped in to help again.

He showed up at the flat while Sherlock was in the midst of an experiment in the kitchen. The Yard hadn't given him a case since he... came back, so I had conceded that he could start up his experiments again as long as he swore to keep body parts confined to the bottom shelf of the fridge and to not contaminate the actual food. It was just enough to keep him from getting bored, and I had to admit, it was pleasant to see him at work again. Some of the anger had dulled, finding itself replaced with the joy of having him back. I tried to cling to that small part. It made getting through the day without hitting something easier.

I opened the door and Lestrade stepped in.

"I have a case that I need your help with. Are you free?"

"Yeah, let me just get my shoes and coat. I can catch a taxi if you text me the address."

"Don't you want to know what it is first?"

"It's been weeks since you've given me a case. If it wasn't urgent, you wouldn't be here. Text me the address and I'll be on my way."

"Thanks." He dropped his voice so only I could hear him. "You can bring him along if you want, but only if you want. I know you can handle it on your own."

"Text me the address."

He nodded and left. I went upstairs, changed out of my work clothes and into jeans and a dark blue jumper before grabbing my gun from the bedside table. It was a reassuring weight in my hand and helped me steady myself as I headed back down to the living room. I set the gun on the coffee table, pulled on my boots, and stood, slipping the gun into the waistband of my trousers. I took my jacket from where it hung by the door and put it on, zipping it against the cold that I knew was waiting me outside the flat.

I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at Sherlock.

"Coming?" was all I said.

He looked at me, shock and excitement registering on his face before he pulled the shutters back down on his expression, as if he was hesitant to believe my offer. I couldn't blame him, especially not since I wasn't even sure why I was asking him. "Are you sure?"

"No, but you may as well. Get your coat on. I don't want them waiting on us forever."

He smiled and stood, pulling on his long coat over the plain white button up and black trousers he wore, foregoing his suit jacket, and fastened the scarf around his neck. I lead the way out of the flat, hailed a cab on my first try, and slid in first. I told the driver the address that Lestrade had texted me and we were off.

I thought that the 20 minutes in the taxi were going to be the end of me because of how stifling the silence and tension was. At least the flat had space, the taxi didn't offer such luxuries.

Finally we arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock paid the driver before I could reach for my wallet and we both got out. Of course, it was Donovan who greeted us first.

"Well, well, are you serious right now? You actually brought him along? After everything-?"

"Sally, do us all a favor, and stop breathing," I snapped before ducking under the caution tape and held it up so Sherlock could duck under it as well. He met my eye and I saw the amusement there. I allowed myself a small smile before turning back to the task at hand.

We were at a 3 story brownstone in Hampstead, a section of town known for the affluent people who chose to reside there. The street was filled with curious onlookers, some of whom had obviously caught sight of Sherlock. There were pictures being taken, smart phones out everywhere.

"Oh, for fucks sake," I muttered and hurried my steps, taking in as much of the area as I could before getting to the door and meeting Lestrade there. "Isn't there something you can do about the crowd?"

"Sorry, mate. We tried. Do you know who lives here?"

I took in the surroundings, noted the pictures that lined the walls of the entrance hall, and caught glimpse of a familiar face.

"Amanda Greyworth. She's running for some political office or another. Is it her?"

"See, here's where we run into a problem. No one in the family is missing. Greyworth and her husband are on their way here, her children are accounted for at school, and we even managed to get a hold of the housekeeper. Everyone who should be accounted for has been. We don't actually have a body for you to look at."

"What?"

"It's easier if I show you."

He led us through the house and into what must be Amanda's study.

Every single book was taken off the shelves, but instead of being tossed around haphazardly, they were set in a spiral that took up the entire free space on the floor. The furniture had all been pushed back against the walls, leaving ample space for the pattern to spread out. It started in the center of the (very expensive looking) carpet and wound its way out, ending with the last book in front of the door. They were all neatly spaced, about 60 in all, and I wish I could say it was the strangest part of the room.

The fact was, there was an awful lot of what appeared to be blood. I took a deep breath, noted the metallic tang in the air, and realized my initial assumption was right. Blood, lots of it, a giant spiral on the floor, and no bodies.

"What kind of attack could cause this much blood spatter?" Lestrade asked.

"It was staged, obviously," I said at the exact same time as Sherlock with about the same level of snark attached to it. We stopped, met each other's eyes, and he motioned for me to continue.

I cleared my throat, suddenly very self-conscious.

"Like I was saying, it was staged. These patterns are inconsistent with any type of attack, for one. They're too perfect, to planned, and too messy at the same time, so it was placed there by hand. There's also far too much blood for one person, unless you completely exsanguinated them, and I think we can rule that out."

"How can you be so sure? Perhaps it's part of the ritual?"

"Ritual? _Oh_, you mean the spiral. No, that's not ritualistic. That's a message of some sort, not a part of a ritual. Look at the books. They were placed on the floor after the blood was sprayed around the room, not before, meaning they weren't the focus..."

I pulled out my phone, a smart phone I had finally invested in, and pulled up a quick search of the spiral pattern in conjunction with other crimes, and in a second everything fell into place.

"You need to run a toxicology report for the blood you gather here. Try everything from marijuana to the obscure street drugs that you have on file."

"Why?"

I held up my phone so he could see what I had found. Over the past month, there have been murders in places just outside the city, outside of the Yard's jurisdiction, and every one of the 5 victims had a spiral tattoo on the back of their neck, much like the one on the floor, and they all had ties to drugs in one way or another. Each attack had become more and more gruesome, with the latest body dismembered completely.

"Amanda Greyworth. Her platform is trying to clean the drug scene here in London."

"And those men are all a part of the drug trade. Right. I'll get someone on it. What else do you have?"

I looked at Sherlock who was looking at me with wide eyes. "Did you catch anything I missed?"

"I- ah-." He cleared his throat this time. "No. No I didn't."

"Then you weren't looking hard enough."

I walked over to the mantle of the fireplace and ran my hand down the side of it until I found what I was looking for. The small button clicked with ease and a panel popped open above the mantle. I stood, swinging it out to reveal a safe.

"How did you see that?" Sherlock asked, appearing genuine in his query.

"The pattern on the wall paper was just slightly off, only my a few millimeters. How did you miss it?"

"I must be losing my edge."

I snorted in response before turning my attention to the dial. She was old school, sticking with a combination lock instead of a pin pad. I blocked out everything around me and focused on the dial in front of me. It was simple to feel the small vibration when he hit the right number, then again, then the final one, even through the exam gloves I had put on before touching the lock. Before I opened the door, I turned around.

"Remember the Woman. You should step out of the way just in case it's rigged."

Sherlock and Lestrade stepped out of the way and I opened the door. Nothing went off so I peered into it. There were a few magazines for a 9 mm handgun on top of a stack of papers and a manilla envelope. I was just about to reach for the papers when there was the sound of a shrill female voice.

"What are they doing in my study? What's going on? Someone tell me something! It's my bloody house, damn it, and I won't be kept in the dark! Do you know who I am?"

I turned in time to see the woman, Amanda Greyworth, push her way to the entrance of the study.

"What are you doing? That's my safe! You can't be in there. Those papers are private!"

"Sorry, ma'am, but we have a warrant to search everything, even what's not in plain sight. I'm sure you understand," Lestrade said.

"I don't care about the warrant! How did you find my safe? Get out of there!"

"Simple, really. You should have been more careful about the wallpaper, Mrs. Greyworth," I said and finally took the papers. I handed a pair of gloves to Sherlock, then the loose papers after he put them on.

"You can't read those! They're private! Don't you dare open that envelope-!"

I did anyway, of course, and pulled out a stack of photographs.

I sighed.

"Why can't politicians be sincere about anything? Cleaning up the drug scene? I doubt it."

I spread the pictures out on the table, the topmost one being an image of Mrs. Greyworth sitting on a couch, surrounded by people, bent over a line of what I assumed must be cocaine. I tipped the envelope upside down and out came a small plastic baggie filled with the same substance. She tried to make a run for it, but Lestrade easily caught her by the arm.

"I can explain!"

"I'm sure you can," he said as he looped the cuffs around her wrists. "I'm also sure the station would be a much better place to question you." He handed her off to another officer who read off her rights as he led her out of the house.

"What do the other papers say?" I asked Sherlock.

"They're e-mails, seem to be blackmail of some sort. She never addresses the other person by name, but the writing style suggests someone who's well educated, male, in his mid to late 40s, and American."

"American? Do you think this could be an international issue?" Lestrade asked.

"It looks like it might be."

"Damn it. This is so not my division," he grumbled and walked out, leaving me alone with Sherlock.

"John... what you did here... the deductions..." he trailed off, shifted from one foot to another, and seemed at a loss for words.

"I learned from the best."

Any response he had was cut off by the loud report of a gunshot.


	3. Chapter 3

I ran out to the front of the building, Sherlock in following (since when did he let me lead the way?), to see Mrs. Greyworth dead on the pavement. The bullet struck her right between her perfectly waxed eyebrows, and I couldn't help but think of the effort she must have put in to keep her cocaine addiction out of the limelight. The back of her head was decimated, and from the look of the officer who had been walking her out of the house, he had been on the receiving end of the bullet slamming into the vest he was wearing. He was also covered in blood.

"High velocity, enough force to kill her but not penetrate the vest, must have been at least 350 meters away..." I looked up and across the street.

"It must have been that building there," Sherlock said and pointed at what appeared to be an apartment complex three streets over. The angle of the shot was right, and I nodded.

"He's right, Greg. I'd send men to check out the roof over there, but you most likely won't find anything. Whoever did this was a professional."

The DI let out a curse. "Why?"

"The e-mails we found were blackmail of the usual sort, lots of money in exchange for secrecy. The pictures were proof that the person could follow up on their threat if Mrs. Greyworth didn't follow through with her end of the deal. I expect we'll see a large amount of money missing from her bank account when we pull the records. I feel like this was just the other person tying up loose ends after they got what they were after," Sherlock continued and looked at me to confirm his suspicions. That was going to take some getting used to, him deferring to me for confirmation.

Greg looked from my face to Sherlock's before looking back at me. I wasn't the only one noting the change.

"Well, I think that's about all we can do here. I'll send out a request for the files on the other murders."

"Can you get the bodies here as well?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Lestrade said cautiously and turned to me. "Should I have them brought to the Yard like usual?"

"The Yard? Why not Bart's?"

Lestrade shot Sherlock a glare that I thought might have killed him if that sort of thing was possible. I, meanwhile, felt the ground shift slightly under my feet. I hadn't set foot in Bart's since Sherlock had-.

I shook my head. "Just send them to Bart's."

"Are you sure, John? You know the Yard-."

"Greg. Just send them to Bart's. I need to apologize to Molly anyway."

He nodded. "If you're sure, then. There's not much else to do here until I get the files and bodies, so you may as well head back to the flat. I'll text you and let you know when I get them in, given that it's already dark out, I can assume that they won't be transferred until tomorrow morning."

"Alright. I'll let Sarah know I won't be in at the surgery tomorrow," I said and went to turn away and head off, but a hand on my arm stopped me.

I recoiled immediately when I realized it was Sherlock. The pain that registered on his face was a bit more than I expected to see.

"Ah... Sorry... I was just... I was going to say that if you didn't want to call off work, I could head over to Bart's and do the exam. You, ah, you wouldn't have to go to Bart's at all, then."

I realized what he was doing, trying to make it so I didn't have to enter that place, I just didn't trust him enough.

"I'll tell Sarah I won't be in tomorrow. Greg, text me when the bodies get in. I don't care what time."

"Will do. See you tomorrow."

I turned and walked to the street, only making a cursory glance back to see that Sherlock was following me. I hailed a cab and we sat in a very uncomfortable silence all the way back to 221 B where I immediately climbed into the shower. The hot water was almost painful, but it helped me clear my mind and focus on the details of the case. This one wasn't open and shut, it would drag on for a while, and Sarah was probably going to be pissed considering it was probably going to keep me out of the office for a few days at least. I hoped her good nature extended to cover high profile murder investigations as well as mental breakdowns.

I made my way out to the kitchen with the intent of making a fresh cup of tea only to find one waiting for me next to a take-out container from the Thai place just down the street.

"I got your usual. I hope that's alright."

I was rather pleased that I didn't jump at Sherlock's voice coming from behind me.

"Yes, that's fine. Thank you."

I briefly considered taking the food up to my room and eating it alone there, but I realized that was childish. Besides, the news was on and I hadn't watched it in a few days. I carried the food and the tea into the living room and sat in one of the chairs. Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the sofa, actually eating his own take-out.

"Do you mind if I put the telly on?" I asked.

"No, go right ahead."

Soon, the news popped on. I'm not sure what I had expected, but there was nothing but coverage of the murder of Amanda Greyworth. Some were calling it a political assassination, meaning the drug charges hadn't made it to the public yet. Sometime, the news coverage of cases helped me sort through facts I would have otherwise discarded as minimal or unimportant. Tonight, the news was doing a piss poor job of reporting anything accurately. I went to change the channel when a particular sentence caught my attention.

"Spotted at the crime scene today was the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, cleared of all claims against his character and professional ethics. This is the first time he had been spotted in connection to a case since reappearing in London after a 2 month absence where he was thought to be dead. He appears to be working with none other than Doctor John Watson just as they had before Holmes' disappearance-."

I shut the telly off, closed the take out container, and stood up to put it in the fridge. I drained the rest of my tea and started to head up the stairs to my room.

"John... may I speak to you for a few moments?"

I sighed and turned around. "What?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, radiating discomfort. "Can you sit?"

"I'm tired, Sherlock, make this quick."

"It's only 21:00."

"It's been a long day."

"I wanted to say that I'm... I'm sorry."

I paused, waiting for him to continue, for almost a full minute while he fiddled with the lid of his take out container, looking anywhere but at me.

"Not going to elaborate?" I prompted finally.

"It's a blanket apology, for everything I've done. Please, forgive me."

I stared at him, my mouth slowly working but none of the words I wanted to scream at him would come out.

I finally managed a one word response, "No," before making my way up to my room.

But even as my head hit the pillow and I started to drift off to sleep, I realized I had already started to forgive him. Fuck.

The taxi pulled up to St. Bart's, and I was fighting off an encroaching panic attack. The sun was barely over the horizon, bathing London in a soft glow, a sight I had always admired. Now, I could hardly keep my eyes open without the entire world going off kilter around me. I got out of the cab, allowing Sherlock to pick up the tab again. I wanted to be surprised that he had come along with me, especially after my refusal to forgive him, but he was already awake and dressed when I stumbled down the stairs after receiving the text from Lestrade.

If I thought the ride over had been bad, stepping into Bart's was the equivalent of jumping into frozen lake. I almost choked on the memories as they flooded me. I had the driver drop us off on the other side of the building from where... everything happened, but it didn't ease the pain that clogged up my chest. I noticed Sherlock looking at me, examining me, with that damned gaze that could see through whatever facade I put up to block him out, so I didn't even try. I let every ounce of anger and pain and panic show on my face as I met his eyes. I stood there, stretching out the moment, until it was him who finally looked away. I took a deep breath and stepped into the hospital.

Molly greeted us at the doors to the morgue. I had sent her a text when we had been a few moments away, giving her time to prepare herself.

"Good morning, John, Sherlock. Lestrade said that the two of you would need all the bodies out on the tables, so I've done that. They're right through here..." She continued prattling on about absolutely nothing as she led us into the examination room. Six bodies were laid out on the table, one of them in pieces.

I shook my head to clear it of the image of another body lying on one of these tables, a spot of blood on the white sheet where it touched the man's head, Molly forcing me away from the table, telling me that she wouldn't allow me to look, that I had to leave, Greg pulling me out of the room by my arm. I think I was screaming at that point.

"All 6 victims were killed with a gunshot wound to the head," Molly was saying, pulling me back to the matter at hand. "Mrs. Greyworth was the only one to have been killed from a distance. Bruising and burns show that the other five were shot while the gun was pressed against their foreheads."

"Did any of them have marks from restraints?"

"The first two victims had ligature marks around their wrists, the third and fourth had marks around their necks. The medical examiner that did the initial autopsy didn't see any on victim 5, but that's quite possibly because of... well..." she motioned to the table that had the dismembered body on it.

I slipped on a pair of exam gloves and started with the first victim. I looked at the wrists first, noting that the restraints had been rope instead of something easier to work with. There was bruising along the cheek where they had been hit with the back end of a gun. The entry wound was clean with the obvious markings of an up close and personal shot. I tilted their head to the side, noting how bad the damage was on the back of their head. The tattoo was still visible, a black spiral identical to the design made on the floor of Amanda Greyworth's study.

I moved on to the next, noting the same restraint marks, the same bullet wound, the same tattoo, but there was more bruising on the second victim than there was on the first. The third had ligature marks around his neck, defensive wounds on his hands, and the same gunshot wound. His hands, upon closer inspection, were both broken in several places and the bruising was much more intense on him than on the first two. The violence got worse with the fourth, knife wounds being added to the mix of bruises that mottled the woman's skin, and the fifth was in pieces. They both had the same gunshot wound.

"Escalating levels of violence. Same perpetrator. They've killed before, though not quite as intimately as the first victim here. He- for it's definitely a man- uses a 45 caliber handgun, overkill to say the least, especially for the way he's killing them. He's a crack shot, too, considering I'm willing to stake my life on the fact that he was also the one who killed Amanda Greyworth. Probably ex-military. He's also about 185 cm tall from the angle of the wounds and the fact that he had the victims on their knees. It was done in the style of an execution, but with the gun pointed at their faces as they looked up at him. He wanted them to see his face as he killed them. Cocky, arrogant, and he's definitely cultivating a taste for killing. These started out as something he had to do, so he's working for someone. Part of the drug ring? Killing off people who were insubordinate?"

"Or from a rival gang. The spiral on the floor of the study could have been a message to the drug ring instead of a signature saying it was them," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since we left the flat.

"That's a definite possibility, probably more likely all things considered. Did the test results come back on the blood in the study?"

"Oh, yes. Here we go. It was very smart of you to ask for a full toxicology report. We found traces of almost every drug we looked for. Heroin, cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, some lesser known street drugs. It was all there."

I looked at the report she gave me and, sure enough, all those drugs were present in very high quantities.

"The drugs, like the blood, were placed there. We need to run checks on the composition of these particular drugs, see if they match any of the known chemical makeups of drugs from dealers we have in the system. If we can match the signatures to a particular area or drug ring, we'll have a starting point. And do we have any hits on who the blood was from?"

"It's a mix of sources, 5 separate donors-."

"Donors! That's it. Molly, you're brilliant. Check to see if the blood was frozen. If I'm right, the blood wasn't from a living victim, but rather a blood bank."

Sherlock looked at me and smiled, "Like Janus cars."

I couldn't help it, I smiled back. "Just like that."

"Alright, I'll get started on those tests now."

"Can I- do you need some help?" Sherlock asked.

Molly looked at me. I nodded. "Sure, if you don't mind. It would make things go faster."

He touched her arm lightly. "Thank you," he said with another smile and headed off in the direction of the lab to get started.

When he was out of sight, I opened my mouth to speak, but Molly cut me off.

"I'm so sorry, John. I should have told you. I should have given you a hint some how. I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. I just... when he asked me to help him... when he told me what was going to happen... I had to do something. I couldn't just turn my back on him-."

"Molly, listen to me. Sherlock Holmes has a way of making people bend to his wishes without them realizing what they're doing. You and I are no different. I... I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was still in shock with him returning and all... I know, now, that you had to do what you did. It's alright, honestly."

She chose that moment to be more observant than usual, much to my discomfort. "You're not as upset with him as you were."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "No... No I'm not. I also don't forgive him." The unspoken yet hung in the air. "Seeing him here, alive and all..."

"I know. It makes it real. I hope... I hope you'll keep coming here, to work your cases. I missed having you around."

She hugged me, and I realized just how long it had been since someone had touched me like that. The tears stung my eyes.

"I know, Molly, and I missed you too. Now go make sure that he doesn't blow anything up, yeah? One of us has to keep an eye on him."

"What are you going to do?"

"Surprise Sarah by actually coming into work today. I'll call Lestrade on my way there and fill him in."

She nodded and I turned to leave. Through the glass wall that showed the lab, I saw Sherlock looking at me. He turned his head away sharply and bit too quickly, smacking his nose off the microscope in front of him. I couldn't stop laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

The first of the chases that happened during this case took place the following evening. We found a connection between the composition of the drugs that were in the blood to the composition of drugs used by a particularly vicious drug ring operating in London and the surrounding area. Lestrade told us to wait, but I tucked the Sig into the back of trousers again, noted that Sherlock was also getting ready, and set out. We made our way to a pub in a rough part of the city, a known hang out for the people we were looking for.

I led us to the bar where we sat and I ordered two fingers of whisky for the both of us, on the rocks. I was more than a little surprised when Sherlock actually took a sip from his drink, but shrugged it off. We both scanned the room, finding the person we were looking for almost immediately. He was a lower level criminal, a middle man, and a perfect way to gather information. We waiting for just shy of half an hour before he got up and made his way out to the back of the club. We followed cautiously, and before we made our way out the back door to the pub, Sherlock spoke.

"He knows we're on to him."

"I know. Be careful."

He gave me one of his "obviously" stares and I rolled my eyes before shouldering open the door. A gunshot hit the metal just above my head. I pushed Sherlock back inside the pub and ducked behind the bins outside the door. Footsteps echoed through the alleyway as the man started running and I cursed. Sherlock opened the door just as I set off after the man, gun still drawn. I heard him following close behind me. We made our way through the alley way, pausing to check around corners, until we came to a point where we couldn't go straight any further. Sherlock and I split up, him taking the left route, me the right. I ran, the blood in my veins pumping what felt like battery acid at that point, until I turned a corner and found the man facing me, his gun drawn and pointing at me.

I raised mine as well.

"Whose aim do you think is better?" I asked.

"Well, you were in the military, Doctor Watson." I fought down a cringe as he said my name. This was a very-not-good development. "I'm betting you probably have the upper hand as far as aim goes, but I bet I'm faster. Just be lucky I only want to talk for now."

I looked him over. His hand was shaking slightly, so unaccustomed to hold a gun. He was also only a few inches taller than me. Not the shooter. I at least had a fighting chance. Why did I split up from Sherlock?

"And what could you possibly have to say to me?"

"I need information from you. Information that could lead me to spare your life."

"What sort of information?"

"Who's killing my men?"

"Your men? Ah. Of course. You're not a low level lackey at all, so you must be Marcus. Good act, all things considered. Shame I don't have the faintest idea who it could be."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry, mate, but honestly, I'm at as much of a loss as you are. Why do you think I'm here? I came to question you about the murders."

"It wasn't me!"

"Obviously, but they are your men dying, as you've so cleverly pointed out to me. Who are you in trouble with?"

"I'm not in trouble with anyone!" his skin drained of almost all its color as the lie stuttered from his lips.

"Oh, really? I sincerely doubt that. Piss off a supplier?" He shifted, enough of an answer for me. "You know, I need you to give me a name."

"Never."

"Never is an awfully long time."

I saw the movement down the fire escape a moment before the man did, but he was too slow. Sherlock swung down, his long legs kicking out, and knocked the man down to the pavement. The gun rattled across the road.

I walked over and pressed my gun to his head as he sat up.

"Are you sure you don't want to change your answer?"

"Fine! Fine! I'll talk! Just don't... don't shoot me." He whimpered. How on earth did people like him gain a following? "The man... he approached me one day, said he could get me a better deal than anything my current supplier had been giving me. Showed me some of his supply. It was perfect, clean, all in order. He had more to offer than the other bloke did anyway. I cut ties with him, took up the new guy on his offer. That was a year ago."

It fit with the timeline presented in the police report, of the drug ring having more and more of a presence over the past 12 months than they ever had before. I realized he had stopped talking and jammed the gun against his head with a bit more force.

"I told you to give me a name."

"I only dealt with a man named Christopher, but I heard... I heard things about his boss. A real sick fuck he was."

"His name?"

"Sebastian. Sebastian Moran." Sherlock stiffened visibly next to me. "Seems he took over for someone the two of you should be very, very familiar with."

"Moriarty." I barely breathed the word, seemed to get it stuck in my throat.

"That's right. Seems Sebastian was his right hand man. Took over the enterprise when Moriarty died, been trying to rebuild it. From what I've heard, he's keeping his hand out of the big deals, focusing solely on London, but he's planning something, something big. I can't possibly imagine what that could be." He looked pointedly at Sherlock and I brought the butt of my gun down across the back of his head, knocking him out. I vaguely registered the spiral tattoo on the back of his neck, the same as the others.

"Sherlock, send a text to Lestrade-."

"He's on his way already."

"Good. That's... That's good." I felt like I was going to pass out.

"John..." Sherlock started, just as flashing lights signaled the approaching police vehicles.

"You'll just have to retell the story to Lestrade when he gets here. You may as well save it."

I felt myself sway slightly on the spot, and felt Sherlock's hand on my shoulder. Instead of recoiling again, I leaned into it, allowing him to help steady me.

"John, I-."

"What happened here?" came Lestrade's booming voice from the mouth of the alley where the cruisers parked, cutting off Sherlock.

I pulled away from Sherlock. "This man is the leader of the ring we were hoping to get our hands on. He's not the killer, though. Someone was targeting his men, some sort of deal gone wrong. He told us he dealt with a man named Christopher, but that's not the main problem."

"Oh? What is?" He studied our expressions. "What happened?"

"I missed one," Sherlock said quietly. "Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man. I thought he was dead. He was supposed to be dead."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Damn it. What happened?"

"Did you hear about the warehouse that exploded outside of Essex a few months back?"

"That was you?"

"And some of Mycroft's men, yes. We had them cornered in there. It was a sort of supply hub. We knew that they were trying to rebuild Moriarty's empire. Sebastian Moran was heading up the charge. He was supposed to be in the building when we blew it up. We even found his dog tags. We thought he was dead. He was supposed to be dead."

As Sherlock spoke, he grew more and more restless, his hand forcing itself into the riot of curls on his head, gripping tight enough to make his knuckles go white. "I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm so sorry. This wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be over. How could I have been so stupid, letting him get away? Out of all of them, Moran's the worst. He fits the profile too, American, mid 40s, ex-Marine. He was a sharpshooter. Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, stop it." I was surprised at the edge of command that crept into my voice. He paused in his pacing and look at me. "We'll catch him."

"John... You don't understand. He's vicious, ruthless. That wasn't his first kill. It was set up to look that way. He was showing us that he could restrain himself. And the drugs. He must have realized that they would lead us to this drug ring. I doubt he banked on them keeping their mouths shut. He must know that they would tell us who they were dealing with. He's insane, honestly insane. I don't... I don't know. I just... Fuck. I can't think. This was supposed to be over. What did I miss? What am I missing now? There has to be something. I can't let this keep going. I was supposed to have finished-."

I slapped him across the face, my open palm raising red welts along his skin. He stopped pacing, his hand dropped from his hair to hold his face, his eyes were wide.

"I said, stop it. We're going to catch him. I swear to fucking God if you take this all on yourself, if you sit there and blame yourself, I will personally see to it that you are properly dead this time around. You heard Marcus. Moran is focusing on London, setting something up here. He hasn't built up the web as big as Moriarty did. We know who we're dealing with. We'll catch him."

He closed his eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and nodded.

"Good."

"So, what do we do?" Lestrade asked.

"Can you set us up in an incident room?" Sherlock asked, his voice regaining some of its normal calm.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll bring over the files I have on Moriarty's web, including those on Moran."

"Alright. I'll get Marcus in for question, press him for whatever he can give us. We'll have the incident room ready for you as soon as you can make it to the station."

"I'll get everything from the flat now. I should be there in just over an hour."

"Okay. See you there." Lestrade was off, Marcus was bustled into the back of one of the squad cars, and Sherlock was leading the way out of the alley to catch a cab.

We sat in silence for the ride back to the flat. I found myself missing when we would bounce ideas off of each other, not letting a moment pass in silence unless Sherlock was tucked into his mind palace, but even that was nothing to the silence that fell between us now. It was painful, but I couldn't think of any words that would successfully fill it.

Sherlock disappeared into his room the moment we were in the flat, leaving his door open. I put the kettle on and put some bread in the toaster, determined to get some food in Sherlock before he started off on what was turning out to be a night of staring at photographs in an incident room. I brought the cup of tea and slice of toast with me as I stood in the doorway of Sherlock's room. I only hesitated for a moment before entering and setting the items on the nightstand next to where he sat, sorting through a box of paperwork.

"I don't want-."

"I don't care. You need to get something in your system before you start at this all night."

He took a bite of the toast, grudgingly at first, but he must have been hungrier than he thought for it was soon gone along with half the cup of tea.

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm sorting through the files, seeing what's necessary to bring and what's not."

I picked up an envelope and peeked inside to look at the contents. There was only something silver, a necklace that looked very, very familiar, pooled on the bottom. I pulled it out and held it up to the light, confirming my suspicions.

"My dog tags."

Sherlock looked up quickly at me, a red flush working its way up his neck. "Ah, yes. Those." He busied himself stacking the papers he was holding into a neat pile and stood. "I think these are all the important things we need. Are you coming with me?"

"Why do you have my dog tags?"

"It's not important," he said and turned to leave the room.

"Sherlock."

He sighed and dropped his head, still not facing me. "I told you already. I needed you there with me."

Then he was out the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open, holding the dog tags, and wondering what the bloody hell had just happened. I tucked them into my pocket and followed him out, telling myself there would be time to analyze this new data later, much later.

The air in the cab this time around took on an entirely different air of awkwardness. I noted Sherlock's face was still flushed. I hoped it was from the cold or even the heater that the cabbie had turned up against the chill November night, but I realized that was just me trying to fool myself. Sherlock was embarrassed.

That's when it occurred to me that Sherlock had shown more emotion since he had returned home than he ever had before. Frustration with cases was normal, but the panic he exhibited earlier was not. The constant, seemingly sincere apologies were new. The blushing. I found myself wondering, more than ever, just what had happened to him during those two years he was gone. I wondered if I would ever gather the courage to ask him, if I could ever stomach the answers he'd give me.

He turned and looked at me, eyes widening just a bit as he read whatever information my expression was betraying. His own face showed the anxiety, the guilt, resting just beneath the surface. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault. I wanted to take his hand, reassuring him that I was in this with him no matter what, just like it used to be. Gods, I missed how it used to be.

I looked away, out over the city, and bit back the tears again. I needed to pull myself together.

Not for my sake.

For his.


	5. Chapter 5

Evidence from the six murders was already spread around the incident room by the time we arrived at the Yard. Crime scene photos were posted on one of the cork boards that covered one wall, the other two walls were taken up by an empty cork board and an empty white board for us to use. The table in the center of the room was filled with evidence bags- clothes, personal effects, drugs, things like that. There were no shell casings.

"He keeps them as trophies," Sherlock said, anticipating my question.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"The shell casings. I was wondering why there weren't any shell casings found. Sherlock was just letting me know," I replied.

"I'm not sure I can handle the two of you being able to do the mind-reading trick. It's a bit... scary."

"Can you get us coffee, by some chance?" Sherlock asked. "This is probably going to take us all night, and I would appreciate a bit of caffeine to help me keep going."

"Did you... Did you just actually ask for something?" Lestrade said, sounding as shocked as I felt.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I did. Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all," Lestrade responded and shot me a questioning look. I shrugged. "Black, two sugars, right? And the usual for you, John?"

"Yeah, that's right. Thanks."

He ducked out leaving me alone with Sherlock.

"Why was he surprised I asked?"

"You never ask for things, you demand them from people."

"What's the difference?"

"Politeness. You were polite. It's... novel." I shook my head at the bewildered look on his face. "Never mind. What can I do?"

"Could you write out what we know so far? That would save time."

"Sure."

"Just leave that last board open for information on Moran. I'll tell you what to put down once I have all these pictures up. And if you could leave the middle board open too, that would be great. It would be good for the parallels and new ideas."

We worked in tense silence for a few minutes while I did as he asked. When I had all the info on the victim's written out on the white board, I turned and saw he was looking at me.

"Yes?"

"When did you start working cases for the Yard?"

"Six months after you... after you left."

"The man murdered by his gay lover."

"Right."

"How did you know?"

"It was obvious. I don't remember the details."

"Have you always been able to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Look at a crime scene and know. Were you lying to me about your abilities?"

"What?" It was priceless, really, him confronting me because he thought I might have been lying to him. "No, of course not. I picked up things from you as we worked. I was getting better at it. I never really had to try with you around, though, and I don't have the luxury of being a sociopath like you so the emotions get in the way sometimes. I've been working on that bit, though. Part of me latched on to the cases because it was something that we had done together. It helped me feel like you were still here. I'd ask myself what you'd look for, what you'd ask, what you'd say, and that helped. Then I just started doing it naturally."

"You didn't need me anymore."

"Not for working cases, no."

He seemed like he wanted to ask me what I meant by that, but Lestrade chose that moment to bring us our coffees. I could've kissed him.

"So what do we have?"

"These are surveillance pictures taken of Moran at various locations."

I started to write as Sherlock launched into a description of him.

"Sebastian Moran. Mid-40s, ex-Marine, 187 cm tall, blond hair, blue eyes, US Marine Corps symbol tattooed on his left bicep. He was Moriarty's right hand man, sent in for assassinations and to handle Moriarty's personal business as well as his protection. He was the sniper during the bombings.

"More than that, he was Moriarty's lover."

The marker I was holding skidded across the white board. "What?"

"Yes. That's part of why this is so important and personal to him. He sees me as the cause of his lover's death, which is technically the truth, but I digress."

"You're telling me that this is all just a heartbroken lover bent on revenge?" Lestrade asked.

"That's not all of it, of course. I dismantled Moriarty's web. Moran's trying to put it back together again. I'm the only thing standing in the way of him contemplating his goal. An inconvenience, if you will."

"Or it could just be sentiment. Rebuild the legacy to honor the man," I added.

"Do people actually do that?"

I almost said that it was what I had been trying to do, but I settled for a nod.

"Alright, well, I'll leave you two at it," Lestrade said and made to leave. "I'll let you know when we have something new to give you. The computer techs should be ready to hand over Amanda Greyworth's computer soon. I'll get it to you as soon as they're done."

He left, and I finally looked at the photos Sherlock had been pinning to the wall. Some of them were of Moran, others were of victims, some of storage facilities. I took a deep breath to steady myself before I spoke.

"I think... I think I'd like you to tell me what happened."

His face went completely blank, but his shoulders betrayed his sudden anxiety. "Where should I start?"

"At the beginning."

"Very well. I knew the general idea of what I was getting into with Moriarty. I knew one of us was going to be the death of the other. I didn't expect him to... exploit my weaknesses. He had the upper hand on me, and he knew it. He also knew when I had beaten him, so he did the only thing he could do: made it so I would have to die with him in order to protect my… my friends. There was something he didn't realize, however. That was the fact that when he called about Mrs. Hudson, I knew there was something up. I asked him to meet me on the roof of Bart's, and once you were gone, I was alone. Well, not precisely. There was Molly. She helped me get everything I would need to make it convincing. There was a corpse that looked rather similar to me, so that it would fool even the great Doctor Watson, and I rigged it so that he was the one who fell from the roof not me. It was all a matter of positioning, a bit of sleight of hand. I needed you to think it was me up on the roof, so I had you keep your eyes there. I made it seem as real as I could. As you were watching the body fall, I was already on my way down the fire escape, into a car Mycroft had waiting for me.

"I stayed just long enough to make sure that my plan succeeded. When I saw that you were still alive, I knew that it must have. We set off for the airport immediately. From there, a private jet took me to Germany, to the first of the warehouses Mycroft's men located. We worked our way from there to other warehouses around Europe, Northern Africa, even two in America. We got closer and closer to Moran, knowing that he was trying to pick up the pieces we were leaving behind. We cornered him in that warehouse outside of Essex. By that point, he had already taken up being a supplier. Drugs, humans, exotic animals- you name it, he could get it for you. It was an easy way in to a lot of cash and a good clientele list. We managed to get a man on the inside. He told us that there was no human cargo in there, just the men who were working for Moran. They were expendable. We dropped a bomb on the building.

"Until earlier today, I thought he was dead. I thought it was over. I stayed away just long enough to tie up a few loose ends, but then I came back to London, back to 221B, and I didn't think anything else of it."

I was silent for a moment, letting the information wash over me. I realized I wasn't nearly as angry as I thought I was. I took a moment to step back, analyze the emotions, until I discovered one that fit. Just like anger, but bitter and with a touch of sadness and loneliness. Betrayal. That was the word.

"I would have been able to help you," I said when I found my voice again. "Once the initial threat was over, you could have told me. You could have had Mycroft kidnap me. You could have had me taken to a secure location. There were a million things you could have done that wouldn't have effected your mission but wouldn't have made me suffer for the past two years."

"I couldn't risk it. You were safe at Baker Street. There were guards placed around the area. You were safe, John. I needed that knowledge to help me get through the rest of the mission."

"I was so far from safe, Sherlock. I was drunk 85% of the time those first few months. I think the only reason it wasn't 100% of the time is that the rest of it was spent in and out of the hospital."

"Mycroft had the right idea, putting the cameras in the flat. I was thankful that he did."

"Yes, well..." I blew out a breath. I still wasn't sure if I was or not, so I let it pass. "I hope you realize how fucking stupid you were."

"I don't think that I was."

"You're wrong. You should have trusted me."

"I did trust you. I trusted you to stay alive, provide reasonable proof that I was dead-," I flinched at the word, but he didn't notice, "And I trusted you to keep yourself out of trouble. I was mistaken on that last bit, I have to say."

I smiled a bit at that. "Oh, you think?"

There was a knock on the door and a tech came in carrying the tower of a desk top computer. Lestrade followed him with a laptop and the monitor for the desktop.

"Mrs. Greyworth had two computers, one for personal use and one from her office. There was more information on the personal one, but we figured we'd set up both for you to go through."

"Great. We should look through both anyway, just to be sure," I said.

"Yeah, yeah, just in case we missed something."

It took them a few minutes to set up the desktop, but I was already looking at the laptop. The password was easy to guess (the initials of her children along with the year she got married). There was nothing particularly damning in her documents or internet history. Her e-mail was a different story. There were the e-mails from the man who was blackmailing her- obviously Moran. I looked at the bank reports we had gotten from her. The amount withdrawn from her account in cash matched the one Moran had demanded she give him. I was reading through an e-mail from her to Moran when suddenly the screen went black.

"What the fuck?" I said, caught off guard, but then a video started playing. It was a man, standing in shadow, speaking to the camera. He appeared to be in a warehouse of some sort (there were shipping containers in the background, the walls and floor were concrete, a single window could be seen behind them). There was a man sitting in a chair underneath a single light. It was obviously staged.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, or at least I hope it's you." It was Moran's voice, had to be. A quick glance at Sherlock confirmed my suspicions. "It's a shame I can't see what you're up to, but that's quite alright. You'll be able to see what I'm doing, and that's more than enough. I also hope our dear detective is with you. It would be a shame if he missed the show."

He stepped into the light, and I caught myself thinking for a split second that all villains tended to be way more attractive than they deserved. Most ex-military men started to go soft around the middle once they dropped out of service- I was a prime example- but he was all muscle, broad shoulders, tall. He still wore his hair in a military cut. He had a Smith and Wesson M&P in his hand, his weapon of choice, and he grabbed the man in the chair by the back of his head to pull his face up so we could see him. He was covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut, and seemed to be coming out of some sort of stupor, quickly becoming panicked when he realized he was tied up and gagged.

Lestrade cursed behind me.

"Recognize him? His name is Martin Vanger, another man who has used my services on more than one occasion. He made the mistake of trying to record one of our conversations, isn't that right, Mr. Vanger?"

Vanger was sobbing at that point. Moran aimed his gun at his knee cap, what I thought was a threat, until he actually fired the shot. The scream, even through the gag, was terrible.

"I said, isn't that right, Mr. Vanger?"

I was impressed when he managed to nod. Moran shot the other knee cap, then turned back to the camera, leaving Vanger writhing in pain, and said with a shrug, "I couldn't just shoot one and neglect the other."

He stepped back a bit and began to speak again. "I can almost feel you judging me. Shame, Doctor Watson, especially considering you've killed a fair share of men yourself. See, we military men understand each other. There's nothing like the power that comes when you pull the trigger, when you end someone's life. It's amazing. Better than sex, really, but you know that already, don't you? How did it feel the first time you killed for Sherlock Holmes, Doctor? I bet there's not a feeling in the world that could compare to it. There is a certain added element of pleasure when you kill for someone you love, isn't there?"

My breath hitched.

I almost looked away when he holstered the gun and pulled a knife from his boot. He cut the shirt off of Vanger, drawing blood as he cut skin along with fabric. We watched as he carved lines along each rib, down the man's sternum, along his throat, just shy of being deep enough to kill. He started in on the legs then, the blade easily ripping through the expensive trousers. Moran must have taken Vanger's shoes off before tying him to the chair. He dug the blade into one bullet wound, down the calf, up the other, through the other bullet wound, and along the thigh. I expected him to continue the line to the next thigh, but that would have made too much sense. Instead, he planted the knife, up to its hilt, into the muscle. There was a pool of blood at Vanger's feet.

I will never, ever forget the screaming or the amazement that he managed to stay conscious as long as he had.

He spun the chair around so we were looking at the profile of both men. He pulled the gag out of Vanger's mouth and pressed the gun to his forehead. Vanger begged, screamed, sobbed, and pleaded.

"What do you think, Doctor Watson? Should I kill him?"

He pulled the trigger.

"Oops. Finger must've slipped. It's a shame. A damn fucking shame. Not that's he's dead, of course. I couldn't give a fuck about that. Let me tell you what's a shame."

He stepped closer to the camera, so it framed his face.

"It's a shame that it was Vanger and not Sherlock, because this is precisely what I plan to do to our little detective, Doctor Watson. Well, not precisely. I'll be slower, more thorough. I'd probably even fuck him first. Can you imagine it? Him, covered in blood, screaming, face down on the cold concrete? I'm sure you can. I thought about killing you at first, Doctor. I thought about taking away the one thing Sherlock Holmes cared about more than himself. I thought about making him suffer the way that I've suffered these past two years, but that's just too good for him. I want him to suffer and I want him dead. I bet I could draw it out for hours, maybe even days. Knowing the pain it will cause you will only help along the process, don't you agree?"

He closed his eyes, but his lip, and smiled. When his eyes opened again, I saw what must be true insanity.

"Good night, Doctor Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

The next 20 minutes were filled with a lot of cursing and commands from Lestrade, sending in computer techs who tried to trace the video up link. Not that it mattered, of course. There would be nothing but a dead body to find when we got to the warehouse. There was no way Moran would stay there.

I pushed away from the table and walked out of the room, ignoring the people who were calling my name, asking me what was wrong. I needed to get away. I couldn't breathe. Rationally, I realized I was having a panic attack. I was thrown back to those first few weeks without Sherlock, reminded quite harshly of what it felt like to be coming apart at the seams. It was painful. I wrapped my right hand around my left wrist and the scar that sat there. If I squeezed hard enough, I was reminded of what it felt like, the blade slicing through my skin, the blissful moment of emptiness, the pain that sharpened everything into focus, the haze of the loss of blood. It was what I imagined getting high felt like. I needed that disconnection from reality just then.

I made it to the roof, a place I often went to think about a particularly difficult case, before the shaking started. I thought I was going to be sick.

I sat on what was probably a heating duct of some sort, my usual place, and looked out over the city. London was alive, even at... whatever time of night it was. There was something about the way the city felt like it was breathing that reminded me I needed to do the same.

I couldn't fall apart. I couldn't panic. I needed to reign myself in, control the emotions, stop all the terrible thoughts that were coursing through my mind because if I didn't, I wouldn't be able to stop that bastard from getting his hands on Sherlock and I knew I wouldn't be able to handle his death this time around. I wouldn't make it.

I dropped my head down into my hands, focusing on the black top roof beneath my feet. I forced myself to breathe in slowly, then out again, then in again, even deeper this time, and out. A few repetitions of that, and I was better, calmer, the panic residing just below the surface of my skin. I could keep it there, not let it interfere. It would be alright.

It would be alright because I would put a bullet between Sebastian Moran's eyes and that would be the end of it.

I stood, noting the way my hands were completely steady, the way my leg wasn't hurting at all. It was a relief to know that I still had it in me, the ability to function under pressure.

I turned and was not surprised to see him standing there, all dark, mysterious, his long coat blowing in the breeze. His hair was a wreck, he must have been running his hands through it like he usually did when he was frustrated. I wondered how long he had been standing there, watching me, when I realized it didn't matter.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"That's rich coming from the man who just had a panic attack."

"You're the one whose life was threatened."

"Happens all the time."

He was right, of course. It was part of what you expected when you walked with Sherlock Holmes. There was always going to be an enemy, always going to be someone out to put an end to him. Why was this time different?

I realized quickly I didn't actually want to follow that train of thought.

"Come on," I said. "We can look through more of those photos, see if the idiots in the tech department got anything from the computers."

"They didn't, I checked before I came up here. There was a virus that allowed access to the computer and destroyed all ability to back trace. We didn't find anything. I want to bring in everything that I have at the flat, now that it's become more of a pressing issue. Maybe there was something I missed in the rest of the files."

"How did they finish their examination so quickly?"

"John... You've been up here for an hour."

"Oh."

"I've been standing here for 20 minutes. You didn't... you didn't notice?" It must have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I heard his voice catch. I just shrugged. "How often does that happen?"

"It hasn't in a long time. Or, at least, I don't think it has. I can't really know when I'm alone in the flat."

"Oh." He seemed to be analyzing me a bit more closely now. It was too intense. I looked away.

"So, what are we doing now? I can stay here and look through the pictures while you head to the flat and get the rest of what we need and bring it back..."

"We're not going to be able to do anything else tonight. We both need to eat something and get some sleep so we can tackle it fresh in the morning."

"There's a case on and you want to eat and sleep? Are you feeling alright?"

"When there weren't any cases for those few weeks after I came back, I got into a regular schedule. This is taking more out of me than I thought it would."

I sighed. My own needs, I could ignore them, but to hear that Sherlock needed to rest...

"Alright. Back to the flat then."

"Can we get Chinese for dinner?"

"You're asking?"

"I already placed the order, I just figured I should... make the effort to ask."

I laughed, far more than I should have. "Right, well, we'll pick it up on our way back to the flat. Let's go."

I was setting the food out on the table in the living room when I heard the clinking of glasses and a bottle from the kitchen. Sherlock reappeared with the bottle of whisky in one hand and two tumblers in the other.

"I was going to put ice in the glasses, but we're out," he said.

"You actually want to drink? Really?"

"Because it's been a long day and you look like you could use a drink. It's never a good idea to drink alone, so I got a glass for myself as well. This is actually the whisky that I usually drink..." he trailed off, looking at me. "That's why you bought it, isn't it?"

"Sentiment," I muttered and shook my head when he asked me what I had said. "Well, food's all out. Do you want the telly on?"

"I was thinking just music. Do you mind?" he asked as he set down the glasses and went to the stereo. I motioned for him to go ahead, and he hit play. It was a playlist of modern music covered by a band that only used string instruments. It was the only modern music Sherlock liked. I was happy to recognize the songs since I didn't think I could handle Beethoven.

We sat on the couch, both cross legged, and downed a single shot of whisky before we tucked into the food. I noticed he got our usual order (sweet and sour pork combo for him, general tso's for me, dumplings). We usually shared.

"Did you... did you want to share? Like usual?" I asked.

"Do you mind?"

"No."

"Good," he said, plucking a piece of chicken from my plate with his chopsticks. I stole a piece of his in retaliation. We laughed.

The fact that it was so normal made my chest ache with a pain I knew was psychosomatic. Knowing that didn't dull the pain.

The whisky did.

We sat in silence for a while, eating off each other's plates on occasion, until we were both far too stuffed and more than a little tipsy.

I sat back, resting my head on the cushion, wishing it wasn't suddenly awkward to entertain the idea of unbuttoning my pants like I used to do when I ate far too much. Why was it awkward?

Didn't want to follow that train of thought either.

"I missed this," Sherlock said quietly from his new position of laying down with his head resting on the arm of the couch and his knees tucked up. His feet were just an inch or two away from my leg. It seemed like far too much space.

"Me too."

"John... I'm sorry."

"I know. I'm trying very hard to forgive you. I think I already might've. I just... Gods, Sherlock, I'm happy you're here. I'm pissed as all hell at you, but I'm happy you're here. I missed you."

I froze for a second, remembering a little too late the fact that sentiment was the most grievous sin in Sherlock's mind.

"I missed you too John."

We sat in silence for a while more, the heat of the fire I had built up exacerbating the effects of the food and alcohol. I felt myself start to drift off, but woke up when I heard a light snore from next to me. Sherlock's head was lolled to the side, resting on his shoulder, mouth slightly open. He was quite obviously asleep.

And adorable.

I stood and grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over him, before turning to leave and head up to my room. His fingers wrapped around my wrist before I could get too far away.

"Don't leave."

There was something about the drowsiness and sleep clogged tone of his voice, the way all the arrogance was completely erased, that tugged at my heart. I shook myself to clear away the feeling, but it stayed there.

"I'm not sleeping on the couch."

"Then I'll move. Your room is probably more comfortable anyway."

"My room?"

"Unless you'd prefer mine."

"Why?" I wasn't sure what I was asking, 'Why your room?' or, 'Why do you want to sleep next to me?' or, 'Why are you doing this to me?'

But he made it so it didn't really matter.

"I don't want to be alone."

How on earth was I supposed to argue with that?

I woke up the next morning with a headache, and I felt way warmer than I should have. I moved my arm to put it over my eyes, and only then did I realize that the sheets I was feeling were not my own.

Then everything came back to me, and I lifted my head just enough to look down.

I remembered falling asleep in Sherlock's bed (it was closer, after all, and if he was feeling as vulnerable as he seemed, his room would be a safer space, or so I told myself). I remembered very distinctly that we fell asleep under separate blankets on different sides of the bed. He had somehow managed to get under mine and was sprawled out over me, his leg pinning mine in place, his head on my chest, and his arm around my torso. The only thing that stopped me from completely freaking out was the fact that we still had clothes on.

My libido quickly reminded me that it wouldn't be such a bad idea if those clothes were to vanish. I tried to quash the idea, but didn't succeed. I was hyper aware of the fact that Sherlock's leg was close enough to feel if I started to get hard, but instead of turning me off, that made it worse. I shifted, trying not to wake him. I told myself that it was ridiculous, wanting to prolong the moment, to keep him resting on my chest where I could memorize every detail of his face as it looked stripped of all its masks.

I realized he was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen about the same time that he woke up.

He shifted, his eyes opening slightly before drooping closed again, and then they sprung open. I felt him tense, then pull away.

"Ah, I'm- shit. I'm sorry. I didn't- I mean- Damn it. I'll go make tea."

He was up and out of bed before I could even get out a word.

I wanted to tell him that I didn't mind. I wanted to say that he didn't have to leave. I wanted to know that I needed him to stay because I didn't want to be alone either.

But he was gone and the bed was empty.

I felt empty.

I dropped my head back to the pillow and cursed.


	7. Chapter 7

I made my way out into the main part of the flat to hear Sherlock in the kitchen preparing tea. I couldn't quite face him yet, so I called out.

"I'm going to shower. Just leave the water in the kettle for me. I'll get my tea when I get out."

I heard what I was assuming was an affirmative noise of some sort before I took the stairs, two at a time, to grab clothes for the day. I quickly found the jeans I wore the day before and a clean t-shirt before making my way back down to the bathroom so I could shower. I had hoped that the hot water would relieve some of the tension that seemed to build up in my stomach, but it had the exact opposite effect. I was far too aware of the size of the shower, how it would easily accommodate two people, how the hot water was reminiscent of hot breath on my skin, kisses that would probably sear my skin with their intensity...

I finished showering quickly, pushing away all thoughts of the bastard who was making me tea in hopes of ridding myself of the erection that popped up when I really, really couldn't be bothered to try and figure out what this development meant. I pulled on my pants and jeans, then shaved, bushed my teeth, flossed, washed my face again just for good measure, until I realized I was just putting off the inevitable. With a sigh, I tugged my shirt on over my head and made my way-cautiously- back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. While I had been in the shower, he must have gone back into his room and changed because he was now wearing one of his perfectly pressed suits with the shirts that always seemed like they resented the fact that he had to breathe. I stopped myself before I stared for too long, busying my hands with making tea and toast. I considered moving into the living room, but figured that would be childish.

"Have you heard anything from Lestrade?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"No. I expect his team is still searching for the body. I told them it was in the eastern part of the city, but I couldn't be more specific than that. I think Moran picked the location simply to throw us off."

"That wouldn't surprise me, sick bastard that he is." It took me almost a full minute to decide I should drink my tea instead of scowling at it. I finished my breakfast in silence and washed the dishes. Sherlock didn't speak again until I was almost out of the kitchen.

"John... about last night..."

Oh God.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock," I said, cutting him off. I winced at the anxiety that made itself present in my tone.

"Still, I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

He caught on to the double meaning that I layered over the sentence and sat up a bit straighter. He raised one of those perfectly slender eyebrows at me as he examined me, trying to figure out if his initial assumption was right.

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing. I... I spent a lot of time thinking, and I know that you thought you were doing the right thing by trying to protect me. I can understand that. I mean... I've killed a man for you. You took it a step further and killed yourself for me. I understand. I don't like it, and I wish it had been different, but I understand."

A tension that I hadn't noticed he'd been carrying around with him drained out of his body. His shoulders relaxed, a tightness around his eyes dissipated, and- just for a second- he smiled.

"Thank you, John. That, ah-." He cleared his throat and looked away from me. "That means a great deal to me."

I nodded, as I wasn't sure that my voice would work, and went to the living room so I could situate myself in my chair to finish the book I had started a few days prior. This part of cases always bothered me- the waiting for a new piece to fall into place, allowing us to move forward in the investigation. It was painful, all the waiting, and it wasn't made any better by the thoughts of the previous night that kept popping up in my mind. I found myself reading the same sentence several times before my phone started to ring.

"We found Vanger's body," Lestrade said quickly. "Can you come now?"

I looked at the clock, realizing it was already well past lunch time. I must have zoned out for longer than I thought I had. "Yeah, we'll be there. Text me the address."

"Will do. And John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's worse than you can imagine, and we witnessed the whole thing. Just be prepared."

"Right, yeah. I will be."

"Are you sure you can handle it? I mean-."

"Greg. I'll be fine. I'm just going to kill Moran, that's all. It's enough to get me through."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

I laughed a bit. "Alright. Send me the address. We'll be there."

"Okay. See you soon."

I hung up and stood to see Sherlock already pulling is coat on. "Found the body already?"

"Yeah. We'll grab a taxi."

I pulled on my boots, tucked the Sig into my waistband, and pulled on my jacket. Sherlock was looking at me funny.

"What's wrong?"

"You're not wearing a jumper. You always wear jumpers."

"I haven't been lately. Not all the time. Haven't you-? Never mind. I'm surprised you paid attention at all to what I was wearing. T-shirts are easier to move in."

"I always pay attention."

"You most certainly do not."

He huffed. "I do so."

We were in the taxi at this point.

"Why are we arguing about this?"

"Because you're wrong. I do always pay attention."

"Sherlock, you don't realize half the time when I leave the flat."

"It's not an important detail."

"But whether or not I'm wearing a jumper is?"

"You look... strange without one on."

"I didn't used to wear them."

"Hm..." he said in that tone that told me he was piecing together bits of information that he hadn't thought coincided with one another until now. "So this is what you looked like as a soldier. You're treating this as if it's a battle."

I looked down at myself. The serviceable boots that were made for demanding exercise and not looks, the comfortably worn jeans that wouldn't hold me back in case I needed to run, the t-shirt that was just loose enough to not constrict me, the leather jacket that fended off the cold and the elements, the Sig...

I shrugged. "It is a battle, Sherlock, and I'm a soldier. It's what I do."

"You're taking this personally."

"He made it personal, last night, or do you forget that bit?"

"It's not your fault that man died."

"I know that. I also know that I'm not going to let him get his hands on you. He's a soldier, like me, and for the time being, you're the contested lands. I'll be damned if I let him touch you." My tone was possessive in a way I hadn't meant it to be, but I couldn't apologize for the truth it showed.

I saw the faint blush creep up his neck again and he looked out the window. (What the fuck was that all about?)

I didn't have much time to think about it. We pulled up to the warehouse, just outside the police tape, and I paid the driver. Donovan was, thankfully, not there to greet us this time.

"Shame. I was looking forward to seeing you snap at her again," Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

I laughed a bit. "Shit, Sherlock. Don't make me laugh-."

"It's a crime scene," he said at the same time as I finished my sentence. It made me laugh even harder.

The sight that waited for us inside the warehouse was more than enough to rip all lingering traces of humor away. I found myself being thankful that it had been a cold night. The decay of the body wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. The smell... Well, that was to be expected. I took a pair of gloves that were offered to be by Lestrade.

"Yeah, it's a bit messy. We found skull fragments a few feet behind him, and the blood pool still isn't dried."

"You saw all the knife work, plus the shots to the legs."

He winced at my matter of fact tone. "Yeah, I'm trying to forget that bit. Since we saw it all happen, there's not too much to look at on his body. We have teams scouring the area for any other clues."

Sherlock had already headed over to the body and started looking it over. It was all straightforward after the video we saw.

"It looks like he may have fought back. There seems to be skin under his nails."

"We'll make sure to check in the autopsy."

"Good. I'll start looking around. I'll take the right half, you take the left?" he said to me.

"Sounds good."

I wished I had made it away quickly enough to miss the coroner undoing the restraints and the body being pulled off the chair, but I wasn't that lucky. I started off to the left, making large sweeps, checking for any sign of disturbances or clues, mistakes made by Moran. I found a box that looked rather out of place and, not thinking, I pulled the lid off.

I probably should have been more worried when I was faced with the wires, the timer, what could only have been a remote detonator in the form of a cell phone, and the containers of liquid explosives set to detonate the second it was called. There was only one thought in my mind, though.

Of course he would have rigged the fucking place to explode.

I moved back quickly, breaking into a run.

"The place is rigged to blow. Everyone out! Get out! Now!" I shouted as I ran. Everyone was scattering. I caught up to Lestrade who was hastily shoving evidence bags into his duffel bag. "We gotta go! Where's Sherlock?"

"I didn't see him. Shit. Sherlock!" he yelled, but there was no answer.

"Sherlock!" I screamed, louder than he did.

No answer.

"John, we gotta go. Come on, John, let's go!" He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the building behind him. We made it about 15 feet from the door before we heard the first phone start ringing. It lasted for less than a second before the explosion shook the ground we were standing on. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, meaning the explosives used weren't all that powerful. It was still enough to turn the building to rubble. The back left corner of the building exploded, followed quickly by the back right. We were running back, further away from the building. The shock wave from the front corners erupting simultaneously hit, making us stumble. Some of the other officers weren't quite so lucky and ended up sprawled on the pavement.

It felt like someone pulled a dome around me. The sound of the blast combined with the growing rush of panic I felt in my chest made it impossible for me to think. I felt like I was underwater, all the sounds around me were muffled and distorted.

Then I saw him again and the breath I was holding whooshed out of me. The sounds of sirens, of flames, of screaming and cursing... They still felt so far away.

I did the only thing I could think of doing. I ran and threw my arms around Sherlock's torso.

"I didn't see you get out. Don't do that to me. You're never allowed to be out of my sight, ever again."

I realized this was the first time I had ever hugged him. I felt a different sort of panic rise in my chest. Slowly, his arms came around my shoulders and held me tightly there even as I went to pull away.

"Idiot," I heard him say with what sounded like affection coloring the tone.

I couldn't breathe for a whole different reason then.

My phone rang and I reluctantly pulled away from him. I didn't look at the number as I answered.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

I immediately put my phone on speaker. "Hello, Moran. So good to finally have a two way conversation with you."

"Yes, my apologies about that. Christopher wasn't able to get the connection working properly. I beat him mercilessly for it, but still, it is quite inexcusable. Anyway, I see our little detective managed to get himself out of the warehouse just fine."

I was grateful Lestrade had joined us and that he didn't miss the fact that his comment meant he had eyes on us.

"Did you really think such a pathetic trap would manage to snag him?"

"No. Or rather, I should say I hoped not. I'm happy he got out, just, as I imagine, are you. That little public display of affection was quite something, Doctor Watson. I didn't picture you as much of a hugger."

"And I didn't picture you as such a prick, but you know what they say about assumptions. Is there actually a point to this conversation? I'm rather bored with you already."

"I was just checking in, Doctor, letting you know that I could get a hold of you whenever I wanted to. Oh, well, there is one other thing."

A gunshot rang out and I fought the reflex to duck when I realized it came from the phone.

"My, my. This one was such a bleeder, Doctor Watson. It was probably all the methamphetamine he was taking. Thins out the blood, you know. He was behind on his payments. He really, really should have known better than to try and screw me over. Shame. Before this, he was such a good customer. Jeremy Brenner. You may know the name."

I did, of course. This one wasn't a political official, just a late night personality host.

I cursed.

"Such a dirty mouth, Doctor. I bet I could put it to good use." I bit my tongue to hold back my retort as he continued on. "I'll be sending you a text message with another clue for you. It should be enough for even you to figure out where this one's at. Or your boyfriend at least. No explosives this time, Scout's honor.

"See you soon, Doctor Watson."

The line went dead and I had to fight the urge to throw my phone into the burning wreck that was the warehouse. It beeped once to tell me that I had a text message. It was a series of three photos. The first was a close up of the bullet wound, the second was of the nondescript room, and the third was of the facade of the building. It looked like a rundown apartment building that could have been in just about any part of town.

"I know this place," Sherlock said. "Where is it from?"

He retreated into his mind palace, quickly swiping his hand as though he was going through a book of various buildings he had been to in his life (which was, in all probability, exactly what he was doing).

"Oh!"

This was an entirely inappropriate time for me to be wishing I was hearing that noise- satisfaction, discovery, slight touch of wonder, and curiosity all wrapped up in one little gasp- in a different context. I beat my libido back with a steely glare as the next "oh" that came out of Sherlock was one tinged with pain.

"What's wrong?"

"I know why I recognize the place..." his voice was quiet and he refused to look at me or Lestrade.

I quickly put two and two together.

"Something to do with you using? Your dealer?"

He nodded. "That's where we met up. It was a drug house. Thought it still was."

"It probably still is," Lestrade said with a sigh. "I'll call in the narcotic's team and we'll head over. Sherlock, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to sit this one out."

"Lestrade-."

"No arguing. I want you to head to Bart's with the coroner. Maybe there's something on the body we missed. If not, you're to go straight from there to the yard and look over the photos we took of the crime scene and any sort of evidence we managed to collect/save. It's a good thing everyone managed to get out, but I think we may have lost some evidence bags in the process. We'll need you to piece the bits we have together."

"Fine." The malice at being left behind dripped in his voice. "Come along, John. We'll take a taxi to Bart's."

"I'm not going with you," I said.

"What?"

I had never heard him ask someone to repeat themselves before. It made me laugh.

"I said, I'm not going with you. I can help Greg at the other crime scene. The two of us can split up and gain more ground that way."

"John..." panic threaded its way through his voice this time, and I realized he was worried about me seeing a place he used to spend so much time. It was a side of him that we didn't openly discuss.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, relax. I'm not going to think any less of you for what I find there, alright? So stop all this worrying. We'll meet you back at the yard when we're done."

His shoulders slumped, defeated. "Okay," he mumbled and made his way to the coroner's van, hitching a ride with them instead of a cab since he would be traveling alone.

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

I was about to get a glimpse of Sherlock's past, and I could only hope I was ready enough.


	8. Chapter 8

I had not been prepared enough.

I let Lestrade and his team led the way in, followed closely by the narcotics team. I followed only once they called an all clear. Once I entered the house, I brought my hand up to cover my nose. The smell was awful. Mattresses were spread out on the floor, all covered in stains I didn't even remotely want to think about. There were empty vials, used needles, pipes, lighters, scorch marks everywhere. There was vomit on just about every available surface, and it was quite obvious the plumbing hadn't worked in a very, very long time. There were also a few people in there, and I was momentarily confused on why the team had called an all clear until I realized that they were all out of their mind on one drug or another.

The thought of Sherlock, the Sherlock Holmes, huddled up on one of those mattresses, a dirty needle in his arm... It was enough to make me sway on the spot.

He always said that the drugs made him shine, helped him focus, and that's why he took them. Seeing the people who couldn't even support their own weight being carried or dragged out of the building made me question the validity of his personal assessment.

"John..." It was Lestrade. I must have looked as terrible as I felt. "It was a long time ago, a lifetime ago. He's an entirely different person now, and it's mostly because of your good influence. Just remember that, okay?"

I nodded, thinking to myself that I couldn't have been that good of an influence if he thought leaving me for two years was still a logical thing to do, but I had to clear out all those thoughts from my mind. I wiped the slate and started up the stairs to the room where Jeremy Brenner's body was. It was worse than the one at the warehouse. He was strung from the ceiling, his arms bound above his head, and completely naked. He had obviously been here for a longer time. The marks on his body were more pronounced, more defined, and deeper, more vicious. The skin on his ribs was actually coming away from the bone. I had to walk away for a few moments when I took in the rest of his body and realized a certain appendage was missing.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked, obviously referencing the thing my mind just didn't want to think about.

"He was castrated while he was still alive. Moran probably thought he was being coy, funny, making a comment on how he was stripping away Brenner's masculinity. It was probably also meant to be a threat to follow up the one he made toward Sherlock. He was also a fucking idiot because it gives away so much about his reasons for doing this."

"Which are?"

"The exact reasons I said. Sentiment. He's pissed off at Sherlock, not for killing his boss, not for toppling the criminal organization he was in, but for destroying his lover and the empire that he had built. It's all sentiment."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"It's the truth. He wouldn't have made the comment about... about raping Sherlock, he wouldn't have taken that particular part of Brenner's anatomy, if he was just in it to be a sadistic bastard. Sex is power. Forcing sex on someone is forcing your power on them. Removing the central organ to accomplish it is stripping away that power from someone else. There are other ways to do this, of course, and if he was just after the sadistic aspect of it, he would have used one of them. Taken a hand, a foot, the eyes-." I cleared my throat when I realized I was freaking Lestrade out. "So, sex is the main problem here. Sherlock stole his lover, Moran wants to get him back for it."

He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Well, does this complicate things or make them easier?"

"A bit of both. We now know his motive for certain, which is more than we had before, and it may be that he doesn't think we're going to figure it out just from this body. He also probably things Sherlock is here and that dragging himself through this place will drag up so many memories that he'll be thrown for a while. That's two steps ahead of him. It makes things more difficult because lovers who are bent on revenge can be merciless. Moran has enough experience, enough mental instability, and enough rage to make him incredibly dangerous."

"What do we do?"

"We need to find him."

Greg nodded. "You can head to Bart's now, if you want. You don't have to stay here. I'll have the body brought there right away."

I nodded and pulled off my gloves. "Yeah, let me do that. I don't think... I mean..." I sighed and shook my head. "How bad was he when you found him?"

"Terrible. It wasn't this house I found him in, but it was similar. He had graduated to higher class cocaine at that point. Clean needles, a better dealer, mattresses with fewer stains. It wasn't better. He deluded himself into thinking that was what made him better than the people we found here. He was being cleaner, smarter about his usage. I had gotten a tip that a familiar face was going to be at the house that was going to be raided that night. I went there, saw him, got him out. He was half dead, more than half dead, actually. I got him out of the building and Myrcroft was waiting in one of his damn cars and he asked me to help Sherlock inside then drove away, leaving me standing on the curb. Sherlock showed back up at the yard 5 months later. His brother had warned me to be cautious about what cases I gave him. I did everything I could to keep him away from the ones involving drugs. Hell, I still do, which is why he isn't here with us now. He actually thought he needed them to help him solve cases. The first one he solved after that stint in rehab, when he was really, truly clean, set off some sort of switch in his mind. He realized he could do it without the drugs, even though it was a little more difficult. He could do it. A few months later, and there you were. It made all the difference, really."

He put his hand awkwardly on my shoulder. "You really made a difference, John, and a damn good one at that. I've never seen him so... happy, normal, like he's actually trying, and that was before we all thought he was dead. I think the two years he spent away from you showed him how much he cared about you. I think he missed you almost as much as you missed him. I know he doesn't show it or act like it or anything, but there's only so much we can hope for. In his own way, John, I really think he loves you. And don't give me any of that shit about not being gay. You don't have to be gay, but you still look at Sherlock like he's the most amazing and beautiful thing on the planet. It's rather sweet in that disgusting too-much-sugar-in-my-tea kind of way, but it's still pretty damn fantastic to see.

"Now go to Bart's and help him look through the evidence. We won't be more than another hour here and you should have the body soon."

"Greg-."

"I'm serious, John. Go."

I was halfway out the door, my thoughts still screaming around in my head, when he called after me, "And stop being such a fucking idiot and tell him how you feel!"

I flipped him off for good measure before I left.

Once I was at Bart's, I did everything I could to avoid going into the lab. It wasn't until I made two cups of tea instead of just the one I had been planning on making- habit of course- that I sighed and went into the lab.

My breath caught a bit in my chest when I saw Sherlock leaning over the microscope. His jacket was thrown over the chair behind him, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his collar seemed to have one more button than usual undone. I took a deep breath, making a mental note that I needed to stop forgetting to breathe whenever I was in the same room as him. Then Lestrade's words circled back through my head and I forgot all over again.

I set the tea next to him, just to stop myself from spilling it with how badly my hands were shaking, and he finally realized I was there.

"Oh, I didn't hear you. Did you find the body?"

"Yes."

He looked at me and cocked his head to the side to really examine me. "Was it that bad?"

"You know what I said about it being sentiment on Moran's part? I was right. He's frustrated you took his lover away from him and he's acting out in sexually sadistic ways. Brenner was castrated of all fucking things. I didn't want to mention it at the scene, but I wouldn't be surprised if there was evidence of sexual assault."

"He's building up to his plan for me."

I couldn't help the growl that slipped out at his words. He looked at me curiously, but I shrugged it off and leaned over his shoulder to see the screen above the microscope a bit better.

"So what are you looking at?"

"I was reexamining the blood from Amanda Greyworth's study, see if there was anything that I missed. It might be nothing, but the cocaine that was found in the blood had the same composition of... well, of what I used to use."

I took a sip of my still too hot tea and the burn on my tongue helped ease the ache in my chest at his words. I was silent for too long and he followed what must have been the obvious cues about my thoughts.

"John... I'm sorry you had to see that place, that you had to see what I used to be. I know we don't talk about it often, but that's mainly because I never wanted you to know just how bad it was. Now I see just how wrong I was. I was never in control."

I turned to look at him, quite aware of how close I was to him when I realized I could almost count all his eyelashes. "You said once that it made you shine. Lestrade told me that you felt you needed the drugs to help you solve cases, that the first one you solved without them genuinely surprised you."

He started to say something, turning to face me in the process, and his lips were suddenly just an inch, maybe two, away from mine. The words died in his throat, and I saw his eyes flick down to my lips then back up. I saw that his pupils were blown wide, his pulse thrumming along harder in his neck, and when his tongue darted out for just a second, a flash of darker pink over the pale shade of his lips, I felt myself leaning in, ever so slightly, which is precisely why Molly chose that moment to open the door to the lab and squeak at the sight in front of her.

I jumped back, almost spilling my tea.

"I was just- I mean- The body, it's arrived, and I thought you'd want to know right away. I'll, um, I'll go get it set up, in the morgue so, um, whenever you're ready..."

"Right. Yes, of course. Let me go with you," I said because the thought of being that close to Sherlock for any longer was almost enough to unravel my self-control.

I made the mistake of looking at him before I left. He had pulled down those shutters that he used to block everyone from seeing what he was feeling, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the table, his pupils were still wide. That had actually happened. He had responded. His face had been tilting to the side, moving closer to mine. He hadn't tried to run away.

I almost kissed Sherlock Holmes.

Almost.

I would have to rectify that situation as soon as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

It took the time between the lab and me putting gloves on so I could examine Jeremy Brenner's body to convince myself that I was being a fucking idiot. All the signs had been there, sure. It looked like Sherlock had wanted to kiss me, and with all the emotions he had been showing lately, it wouldn't surprise me to find out that the bastard had actually been capable of feeling this entire time.

But why on earth would he want to kiss me?

So that train of thought stuck around for a while. Even as I confirmed all the deductions I made when I first saw Brenner's body, part of my brain was ticking out all the reasons I was an idiot for believing that Sherlock Holmes would want to kiss me of all people.

He's amazing. I'm boring.

"Molly, I need you to run a rape kit on him."

He's brilliant. I'm stupid.

"It looks like all the damage that was done to him was while he was still alive."

He's beautiful. I'm not.

"And also run a full toxicology report. Moran said something about methamphetamine."

He is more radiant than the sun. I am- as he has told me on several occasions- dull.

"I think that's about all. Let me know the results of the rape kit," I concluded as I snapped my gloves off and tossed them in the trash.

"John, aren't you-? I mean... ah... shouldn't you tell Sherlock what you found?"

"He knows already," I replied a bit too harshly. "He always knows."

I left before she could ask me what I meant by that. In the taxi on the way back to 221B, I listed even more reasons on why I was an idiot.

He just got back from being on a mission that took him traipsing about Europe and America, helping to dismantle a crime web that was so intricate, it kept him busy for two entire years. He was also guilty over the fact that he led me to believe he was dead, even though he believes he did the right thing. Wanting to kiss me was probably just some reaction to all the stress we're under with Moran, him coming back, and readjusting to one another.

Because Sherlock Holmes couldn't possibly feel even a fraction of what I felt for him because there was no way someone in their right mind would love me as much as I love him.

It took me a full minute to realize that I had finally admitted to myself that I loved him.

Well, that complicated things.

I ended up falling asleep on the couch, only waking when the door opened announcing Sherlock had come back to the flat.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't think you'd be on the couch..." he said when he saw that I had shifted awake.

"No, no. That's fine. I should-," my words were cut off by a yawn. "Damn. I should get into my actual bed. I hadn't meant to sleep here. I was just so damn tired when I got back from Bart's that I made a cup of tea and sat here to drink it and I must have dozed off-." I realized I was rambling and stopped talking altogether as I made my way toward the stairs to my room.

A hand on my arm stopped me.

"Oh, did you need something before I went to bed?" I asked, brutally aware that my face was turning a riotous shade of red.

"Stop over thinking things."

"What?"

"You know I don't like to repeat myself."

One of his hands cupped my face, the other was tugging at my waist, pulling me closer to him.

And then Sherlock Holmes, the amazing, brilliant, beautiful, radiant Sherlock Holmes, was pressing his lips against mine.

I was pretty sure I had finally died.

At the touch of his tongue against my lips, I pushed him against the wall, granting access at the same time. I could taste the cold London night on his lips, the last vestiges of the tea I had made him on his tongue. I had never properly made out with a bloke before, and it took some adjusting. He was taller than me, and we were both out of practice on how to make things like lips and tongues work together. There was teeth and not knowing where to place hands and far, far too many clothes.

It was perfect.

I pulled away only when I needed to breathe.

"Sherlock-."

He flipped us so my back was against the wall, knocking the air out of my lungs and cutting off all hopes I had of finishing that thought. His hands found their way under my t-shirt, over the skin of my lower back, and I hissed in a gasp that he caught and silenced. My hands fumbled at the buttons on his shirt and I cursed myself for ever thinking that I wanted anything less than every single inch of his skin. He pulled his mouth away from mine just long enough to move it to my neck.

"Bed?" he asked with a small nip to the bottom of my ear.

"Oh God yes," I managed around the moan.

He tugged me into his bedroom, closing the door behind us. My hands were already tugging at his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Mine joined it quickly. He was toeing off shoes and socks as we made our way toward the bed. He pushed me down on to it, climbing so he could lay half over me, half on the bed. He was kissing me slower now, gently, and when I finally managed to look at his face, his eyes found mine. They were mostly pupil, but the chaotic ring of colors that usually circled them had settled on a clear, deep green only visible thanks to the sliver of streetlight that settled over us through a crack in the curtains.

He kissed me again and my eyes closed. He trailed those kisses down my neck, pausing to nip gently at my ear, at my collar bones, lower to my nipples. He planted a kiss, ever so light, over the scar on my left shoulder.

It almost broke my heart.

When I groaned, his hands dug into my hips.

Those hands were soon working to undo my belt and I was suddenly catapulted back to the reality of my current situation.

"Sherlock-."

He moved up and kissed me, cutting off my words again. I would have to find a defense against that particular weapon.

Then his hands tugged my trousers and pants down and I was so painfully hard that when those same hands, those clever, clever hands, wrapped themselves around my cock, I couldn't do anything besides let the feeling wash over me. When I felt myself getting close, I realized I didn't want it to end quite so soon. I pulled him back up so I could kiss him, pulled his hands away from me, and flipped us over so I was on top. I kicked the trousers and pants off that had wrapped themselves around my calves and started working on his. I traced the same path as his lips did, down his neck, across his chest, lower. I had to bite back a laugh when I realized his pants were silk, as if anything Sherlock Holmes wore would be anything less than extravagant.

I tried to push that thought out of my mind, tried to forget all those reasons I had listed on why he couldn't possibly want me, but it was impossible. Even as I tried to focus on the fact that my hands, my mouth, were making those delicious noises come out of his mouth, it wasn't enough to rid me of the doubt completely.

He noticed, of course he noticed, and his hand wrapped itself in my hair to pull my mouth up from where I was trailing kisses over his thigh. He pulled me up to kiss him, flipping us over so he was on top, but this time he straddled my thighs, one knee on either side of me. The feel of his cock pressed against mine sent a sharp thrill through me. I groaned again as his hips ground down against mine. He reached over to his bedside table, another movement that elicited a gasp from me, and I heard the click of a cap opening. When he wrapped his hand around the both of our cocks, pressing them together, stroking from base to tip, I forgot any ounce of surprise that Sherlock owned lube on the basis that he was a genius and I was pretty sure if he stopped moving his hand I would kill him.

He braced himself with one hand on the headboard so he could lean down and kiss me. He pulled away after just a moment and I whimpered at the loss. He made up for it by slightly increasing the pressure of his hand.

"John Watson, you are an idiot."

I wondered vaguely if this was his idea of dirty talk before he continued on.

"How could you possibly think that I wouldn't want you?"

Oh. Not dirty talk.

"Sherlock-."

"Shut up. How could you think that? You are amazing and brilliant and you make me want to memorize the names of stars so I can show you how you are so much brighter than them."

He was grinding his hips into mine in time with the movements of his hand. I felt myself starting to tighten up, the impending blow of my orgasm fast approaching.

"I'm close," I managed to choke out without him cutting me off. I called that a victory.

He kissed me again, moving his hand faster, his breaths coming sharper, deeper, and I realized he was close as well. I needed to see this, I needed to see him come apart. I forced myself to open my eyes, to look at him again. His eyes were already on mine and he said something I never thought in a million years I would ever hear someone say to me, especially not him.

"How could you think I wouldn't want you when you are so fucking beautiful?"

Every bit of control I had over myself collapsed. I cried out, probably his name and some combination of profanity. I remembered the moment I shut my eyes how badly I needed to see him, and when I opened them again, it was at the very second where every single mask I had ever seen him wear disappeared. He was lost, wrecked, destroyed, decimated.

And he had the nerve to say that I was beautiful.

He collapsed on top of me, allowing me to support his weight. It was uncomfortable, but not nearly enough so for me to ask him to move. We were slick and sticky from the amount of cum that was gluing us together. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to the even sweatier skin of my neck where he buried those curls, trailing kisses over my shoulder that made my skin feel like it was on fire.

We didn't speak, though there were a million things for us to say to each other, a million questions to ask and answer, and not a damn bit of it seemed to matter.

He finally rolled off of me, and for a moment, I panicked. This was it, I thought. This was the moment he told me to get out of his bed, to get out of his flat, because it was all a mistake and he regretted it and didn't mean all those things-.

"Shut up."

I felt the blush creep up my cheeks. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking a lot of rather negative and unnecessary thoughts, John. Unnecessary mainly because you're wrong."

I turned my head enough to look at him. "Am I?"

"Of course. But the real question of importance here," he said and turned to face me before continuing, "is whether or not you're going to help me shower or make me do it all by myself."

The corner of his mouth quirked up just a bit, just enough, and I laughed. I laughed because I was happy and he was ridiculous and nothing else mattered because I was in love and even though I didn't know where that was going, it was okay and I was going to shower with Sherlock Holmes and there wasn't a damn thing in the entire fucking universe that could stop us.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I tamed down the smut scene in this chapter (and I'll probably edit the one in the last chapter as well) so that it isn't quite as intense of a violation of 's guidelines. If you want to read a more detailed/explicit version, look me up on Archive of Our Own. My user name on there xstarxchaserx, and the story has the same title. Thanks a bunch, loves :)**

I realized that when I took Sherlock Holmes to bed (or, I guess in this instance, when he took me to bed), there might be some complications. I imagined awkward conversations- or lack thereof- and days spent browsing the classifieds looking for a new flat. I expected him to kick me out of bed, tell me that it wasn't important, that it was just for science or some fucked up shit like that. I expected him to tell me that it was my fault, that he was just doing it to make me happy, because it was expected.

I did not expect him to ask me to shower off with him. I did not expect him to ask me to sleep (naked, as he specified) in his bed. I did not expect to wake up to gentle caresses and lips pressing against my neck and those beautiful hands roving lower over my back and down to cup my ass. I did not expect to hear that amazing voice, dropped just another octave or two lower, still gravelly with sleep, ask me to roll over because he would really rather kiss my lips. I smiled and gave in after very little protests for my comfort.

He kissed me long and deep and slowly, cataloging the way each caress of his lips and tongue and teeth made me feel. There was a lingering bit of awkwardness, working out the mechanics, but I was more than a willing test subject.

"Sherlock..." I all but growled when he nipped at my bottom lip, sending shocks through my body. I needed him, badly.

When he only smirked and went back to kissing me, I flipped him over on to his back, surprising a small, almost undignified squeak out of him. I let myself explore his mouth with as much intensity and focus as he had explored mine.

"John." It came out as half a breath, half a whine, and it was so unlike anything I had ever heard come out of his mouth, I had to stop and stare at him for a moment. "What?" he eventually asked.

"You are amazing," I said. "That's all."

He was going to question me on what he did, what made me say that, how could he get me to say it again, but instead, I kissed all questions off his lips, undoing him more with gentle caresses of my fingertips down his ribs. I traced the line of his collar bone with kisses, moved my hand lower to where I could feel his erection pressing against my thigh. There was a drop of moisture already beaded up at the tip and I found myself once again momentarily struck by the fact that I was the one making Sherlock Holmes respond this way. I felt humbled and extremely proud all at the same time.

Well, that is until he wrapped his hand around mine and made it clear he wanted me to stop. I pulled away quickly, the fear settling back into my stomach that he was already over the whole thing and that he'd be asking me to leave.

"I thought I told you last night to stop that."

I blushed and ducked my head so I could plant a kiss on his neck. "Sorry."

"I was stopping you because I don't want to come like that. I think... I rather think I would enjoy it if you..." he cut himself off, huffed at his loss of words. "This shouldn't be nearly as hard as it seems to be."

I held myself up on on elbow so I could see his face. "Just be frank. It's what you're best at."

He met my eyes, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and looked away again. I gave him a moment, and just when I was about to tell him that he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, he spoke. "John. I think I would like to feel you inside of me."

"Are you... are you sure? Have you ever-?"

"Yes, I'm sure, and... yes. I have. It's been a long, long time though."

It took me almost no time flat to imagine precisely what Sherlock could have been doing on those filthy mattresses in the house where we found Jeremy Brenner, and almost as short a time to realize I wanted very much to erase the memory of every single person who had ever laid their hands on him and mark him for my own.

"Okay. Do you have lube and condoms down here? We probably should have thought of condoms last night come to think of it. Damn it. I'm sorry."

He pushed me lightly so I moved enough for him to roll over and dig in the drawer of his night table. He pulled out a paper and handed it to me before going back to searching. The paper was his test results, as of two weeks prior.

"I'll understand if you still want to use protection, but I know you're clean as well, so it's not a priority..."

"Why did you get this done?"

"The routine check up excuse wouldn't work on you would it?" I shook my head no and he sighed. "The truth, then. John Watson, I've been thinking about shagging you since that first night, after we chased the taxi through the streets of London. I just spent a rather inordinate amount of time trying to push those desires out of my mind because, well... I didn't want to be the reason this," he made a vague motion between the two of us, "to go away."

I didn't know what to say in response to something like that, so I kissed him instead. I poured every ounce of frustration, residual anger/sadness, and pure, unadulterated joy into it. Soon, he was melting back into the mattress. I took the lube from where he was still clutching it in his hand and set it next to us while I situated myself between his legs. I kissed lower, down his chest, until I was able to wrap my lips around him. The taste was sharp and sweet all at once in my mouth. I managed to maneuver myself so I had my chest on the bed, propping myself up on my elbows so I could keep him in my mouth as I opened the lube and liberally coated my index and middle fingers. I went gently, using my mouth as a distraction, slowly guiding first one, then a second, then a final third finger into him.

"Please, John... Please. God. I need you. Please. Don't make me wait any longer."

I eased off of him, both with my hand and mouth, and slicked myself up.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. Please..."

I pulled him closer, tilting his hips up just a bit, and guided myself into the gloriously tight heat of his body. I went slowly, for both of our benefits, and when I was buried inside of him completely, I rested their for a moment before giving my hips an experimental roll that drew a deep, throaty moan from Sherlock. It was the most deliciously sinful thing I had ever heard in my life and I had to resist the urge to pound into him. I dropped down, instead, so that I could kiss him as I rolled my hips again. His legs wrapped around my waist, and soon, his hips were moving up to meet mine thrust for thrust. I wrapped one arm around his neck, cradling his head there, as I held myself above him with my other. I gradually turned up the pace. His arms came up to wrap around my back, and on a particularly rough thrust, his nails dragged across my skin and pulled a growl from my chest.

"Oh, fuck yes," he said. "Harder, John, please."

I obliged and his nails pulled across my skin again. It was a delightful, sweet kind of not-pain. I felt myself getting close and moved up again so I could wrap my hand around his cock to push him over with me. I timed the movements of my hand with the thrusting of my hips, felt the flutter of his muscles, and picked up the pace of my motions.

"Let go, Sherlock. Just let go," I found myself saying, and he did. I watched as his eyes fluttered open and drifted closed again in a moment of surprise at how quickly his orgasm had sneaked up on him, then I watched him come apart- this time under the pale, early morning light- and something about the look on his face combined with the way he all but cried my name as his body tightened around mine threw me over the edge.

I could only lay there, my head resting on his chest, still buried inside of him, until the lights stopped dancing in front of my eyes. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, the sentiment of it making my skin flush for an entirely different reason. I eased out of him, quickly apologizing at the wince I saw dance across his features.

"No, don't apologize. That was... quite amazing, actually."

"No need to sound so surprised," I said, only half faking the hurt tone.

"That's not what I meant at all. My previous encounters with such acts were... rushed, unpleasant, painful. The fact that it could be gentle, that someone could be gentle with me, and still enjoy themselves was a bit of a surprise."

I kissed him, lightly, first on the lips, then on his forehead. "I don't understand why anyone would ever rush with you. Watching you slowly come apart is probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life, and I swear to you, Sherlock," I tilted his chin up so he was looking at me instead of having his eyes down cast, "I am nothing like anyone you have ever been with."

His expression grew thoughtful and intense, like it does when we work a particularly confusing case, then softened. He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled my head down so my forehead was resting against his. "No, John, I don't think you are."

The next two days were blissful and tense all at the same time. There was the joy of being able to freely look, touch, and taste whenever we wanted. It was something we took quite a bit of advantage of, spending almost as much time in bed as we did in the rest of the flat.

Tense because the only time Lestrade texted me was to say that he didn't have any new information.

The bliss soon gave way to the tension. Sherlock resumed alternating between pacing the flat, playing the violin, and laying on the couch lost in the depths of his mind palace.

"I need some air," he finally said one night, after I had finally got him to eat some take-out.

"Alright. Give me a few minutes to change-."

"No, I want to walk and think. I won't be good company for you, John."

"You shouldn't be going out by yourself, Sherlock. Moran's still on the loose, and we don't know what he's up to."

"I don't need a body guard."

"No, but you do need someone who can keep an eye out for you while you're wandering around your mind palace."

"I'm sorry, John, I want... I want to be alone. You're distracting. It's a beautiful, wonderful distraction, don't get me wrong, but I need to be away from you for just a little while so I can separate my thoughts of you from where they're intertwining with every other thought I'm trying to have."

"I don't like this, Sherlock. What about Lestrade?"

"Gods, no. Please, John. I'll only be an hour at most. I promise. I'll take my phone with me."

A thought came, unbidden into my mind. "Can I see your phone, actually?"

He handed it over. "I'm not making any plans without you. I learned my lesson the last time I did that, but feel free to look. There's also a way to figure out the last time anything was reset if you think I may have deleted anything."

I wanted to hand him back his phone, to tell him that I trusted him, but I knew he'd appreciate the honesty more. I found nothing in his phone to incriminate him and sighed deeply. "Okay. After an hour, I'm coming after you."

"I would expect nothing less."

I stood as he got on his jacket and I walked over to my own coat, looking for just a moment before I found what I was searching for. I went over to him and kissed him, bring my hands up so I could slip the chain around his neck. His hand wrapped around the dog tags and he looked down at them for a moment before looking back up at me.

"What's this for?"

"I can't be with you at all times, so this will have to do instead. They helped you when you were away, so-."

Whatever justification I was about to ramble on about what cut off when he kissed me. "What am I going to do with you, John?" he said with a chuckle.

"Oh, I can think of about a million things. Perhaps after you've sorted your thoughts out, we can explore a few of them."

He smiled- a genuine smile- and kissed me again. "I'll be back within an hour."

I nodded and opened the door for him. "Don't do anything stupid, Sherlock, or I swear I will hunt you down and kill you myself."

"Stop worrying. I'll be fine."

When he was gone, I poured a glass of brandy. The truth was, I was happy for a bit of space myself. I had thoughts and emotions that I needed to sift through, and having the flat to myself would help a bit, of that I was sure.

It took about 15 minutes for those thoughts to be sifted through and the panic to set in. I thought about texting him, but I didn't want to be clingy. There was nothing that Sherlock hated more than sentiment.

Though that wasn't entirely true. Ever since he came back from his mission, he had been showing more emotion than I thought he was capable of ever expressing. Perhaps he wouldn't mind if I texted him, just to check in on him. It had been 20 minutes, and knowing him, he could get into a world of trouble in that time.

I reached for my phone just as the text message alert went off. My heart lit up for a minute, seeing his name on the screen and realizing that he had taken the initiative to text me first. Sentiment was something he was really, really good at.

I should have known better, of course, because when I opened the message it was picture and a single line.

The picture: Sherlock with a piece of cloth tied around his head acting as a gag, his lip busted open, his hands tied behind his back, face down on the floor of a van.

The text: Come and play, Doctor. - SM


	11. Chapter 11

My heart stopped. I couldn't breathe. The entire room swam around me. Sherlock was gone and there was nothing, nothing I could do about it.

_Come and play, Doctor. -SM_

Or was there?

I felt my phone vibrate in my hand- a phone call this time- and answered it solely on reflex.

"Doctor Watson," came Mycroft's perfectly composed voice. "You know what happened, I assume?"

"Tell me how we're going to get him back."

"I was calling to ask you the same thing."

"What?"

"I was hoping you would be able to help me in recovering my brother."

"You mean... you don't... you don't know where he is?"

"No."

"You are the British-fucking-government, and you're telling me that you couldn't keep proper tabs on your own brother?"

"I'm good, John, but Moran... he's clever."

"Cleverer than you?"

"Perhaps."

There wasn't an ounce of emotion in his voice. There was no compassion, no worry, no fear. It was dead, politically correct, perfectly composed, and I found myself rather wanting to rip his vocal cords out.

"Do you even give a damn? Do you actually care? This is your brother we're talking about here! You should send out of the best men that you have at your disposal. You should track him down. You should track his cell phone for fucks sake. You shouldn't be asking me of all people to do this for you!"

"Don't insinuate that I do not care about Sherlock. He's my brother, John, my little brother-" his voice cracked here, then he sucked in a deep breath, "-and you seem to have misunderstood me somehow. I am asking my best man. You have worked this case. You know my brother better than anyone ever has, better than I ever will. I am asking you to find him, John. Find my brother. Please."

"I'll try my best."

"I do hope so."

The line went dead.

I took every ounce of panic, every terrible thought, every doubt, and shoved them into a drawer in the back of my mind and threw away the key. I called back that feeling of being in Afghanistan, knowing I would probably die the next time I set foot out of my tent, knowing I had to step out of my tend because men were counting on me, accepting it. This was no different.

This was a battlefield.

I called Lestrade.

"Oi, what's up mate?" he answered.

"He has Sherlock."

"What did you say?"

"Moran. He has Sherlock. I expect you'll be getting picked up by Mycroft shortly, since you've been working this case with us. Don't fight it. This isn't going to be in your jurisdiction. This isn't going to be by the book. It's going to be bloody and dangerous and I swear to fucking God that I am going to get Sherlock back and there is nothing, and I do mean nothing, that will stop me from that."

"I understand. I see a black car now actually. That'd be him. I'll see you soon."

I went upstairs and changed out of my jumper. It was back to the worn-in, beat up jeans, the t-shirt, the steel toe boots. I tucked a knife into my boot, loaded the Sig, took two more magazines from my drawer and tucked one in my other boot, one in my front pocket.

My mobile went off again, a different sound than I was used to.

I looked at the screen and knew, immediately, that it must be Moran's doing. A simple link that said "Click Me" popped up on the screen. I did.

It was another live stream.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. I thought you might enjoy the show. I think I have something you want."

He stepped aside and I saw Sherlock. His arms were tied above his head. His shirt had been removed. There wasn't too much visible damage.

Yet.

"So what are you going to do, Doctor? Make a cuppa, pull up a chair, watch? I mean, there isn't much else you can do at this point to be honest."

Oh, he was so wrong.

My mind was already racing. There was a window in the background. It didn't give a view of anything except the actual city in the distance. I raced downstairs to the living room where we had a map of London tacked to the wall. I looked at the building that were visible in the background, took a pen, and marked out the area that you would be able to see those building at that angle from. It was just under a quarter of the city. I needed more.

I was vaguely aware that he was still speaking. Talking about all the things he was going to be doing to Sherlock. I barely caught the word "flay" and "slice," but even only half paying attention, it was enough to give my stomach a nasty sway.

I blocked him out completely and listened. There was a noise in the background, one I couldn't quite make out...

Trains. Lots of trains. A rail yard.

I found one in the part of the map I had sectioned off, factored in the distance from their location to the building in the background and how distorted the train noises were. They were on the upper floor of a building, probably the top floor given the angle, but low enough to still hear the train noises, between 7 to 10 stories high...

They were building a new apartment complex in that neighborhood. It had been all over the telly for a few weeks. Zoning issues, just as they were almost completed with the project. It was a disaster. Some were claiming government interference.

Turns out it was something a lot more sinister than that.

"Well, I think that's enough talking now, don't you Doctor? Oh look, he's coming around. Just in time."

I looked back at my phone and, sure enough, Sherlock's previously slack body was moving again, fighting against the restraints.

"Oh, Sherlock, good to have you back with us, love. How are you feeling?"

"Just wonderful. I could do without the ropes. Bondage is only fun if both parties are consenting, Sebastian, surely you know that."

"Isn't he lovely, Doctor?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked around. "John?"

"Easy now, I'm just live streaming the fun to him. Christopher failed, yet again, to make it a two way connection so he's just watching for now. Plenty of fun still to be had."

"Stop this. You have me. Leave him out of it!"

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... Such a shame. I didn't take you to be the self-sacrificing sort. Pathetic."

He brought his hand, open palm, against Sherlock's face, whipping his head to the side. I clenched my phone hard enough that I think I heard the phone grind in protest. He brought the back of his hand across Sherlock's face again. I whipped the phone at the couch.

"Fuck." I said, after a few deep breaths. I had to get myself together. I had to do this. I knew where he was. I could find him. I could do this.

I knew where he was.

I snatched up my phone again and all but ran out of the house. There was, of course, a dark SUV waiting for me. Mycroft's man opened the door and I climbed in without looking at him.

"What have you found?"

I gave them an address, and soon we were speeding through the busy streets of London.

"What's the plan?" Lestrade asked.

"John here is going to infiltrate the building for us. I will give him a 5 minute head start before I send my men in. You will have approximately 10 minutes total before they reach the top floor behind you. On their way, they will be placing explosive charges at strategic points. They will clear the space, retrieve you and my brother, and then- once you are clear of the building- we will demolish it."

"But there's going to be people in there-," Greg started.

"They're all going to be dead," I said. I was still looking down at my phone, with its volume muted. I didn't need to hear the sounds of distress as Moran landed slap after slap, both with his hands and his words, on Sherlock. I was surprised at the calm, even tone of my voice.

"You say that like it's a matter of fact."

"It is."

"John, those are people-."

I simply un-muted my phone.

"How about this Doctor?" came Moran's voice, silencing Lestrade completely.

There was another crack of flesh against flesh.

"I want to get him warmed up, Doctor. I want him to already be in quite an amount of pain before I take him, claim him for myself. I can't wait for you to watch that bit, John. I can call you John, right? I feel like we've moved past the point of formalities in our relationship."

He grabbed Sherlock by his hair, tugging his curls until he was looking up, straight at the camera. "What do you say, Sherlock?" he said, almost pressing his lips against Sherlock's cheek. "Will you finally cry out for me as I fuck you? Do you think that will be enough? Maybe our dear John has already offed himself. I wonder if he's actually still watching this. I wonder if he even cares. Maybe he just decided that you were finally too much trouble for him to deal with."

A low, half choked sound bubbled up from Sherlock's chest. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

"What can you _possibly_ find funny in your current situation?"

"He's going to kill you, and you're too cocky to realize it. You have, what, 15 men in this entire building? He's a soldier, Sebastian."

"So am I."

"No, no, no. That's where you're wrong. You are an ex-Marine. You are an ex-soldier. Your cause is dead. John? He never stopped. He's going to kill you and it's going to be beautiful."

The next hit was a punch straight to Sherlock's stomach. Moran took a cloth strip from the table and gagged Sherlock with it. The next thing he picked up was a knife.

The SUV stopped moving and I realized we had arrived a block away from the building. I looked up from the screen and saw Mycroft and Lestrade had both gone pale.

I cleared my throat.

"Like I said, Greg, they're all going to be dead and-" the sound of fabric tearing sounded from the phone as Moran cut Sherlock's trousers off of him, "-and I am not going to make it pretty."

He only nodded.

I got out of the car when the door opened, followed by Mycroft. He opened the trunk of the vehicle and I saw a wide array of weapons there.

"Take what you want," he said.

I looked for just a moment before I picked up one item- a hand gun with a silencer attached- and turned to walk toward the building.

"You should at least wear a vest." Lestrade said as he started suiting up so he could join Mycroft's men when they went in to clear the place.

"You heard Sherlock. There's only 15 men. I'll be fine."

"John-."

"His MO is shooting people in the head. What the fuck is a vest going to do to prevent that? It's going to slow me down and make it more likely I'll get killed."

Lestrade sighed, then placed his hand on my shoulder. "Get him back, John, and for God's sake- be safe."

"You too."

I looked at Mycroft. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. His posture shifted, changed into his usual calm, collected demeanor. I knew he was doing what Sherlock so often did- the facade of control when he was really falling apart. I nodded once, then turned on my heel and headed off.

There was one man at the back door- a service entrance of some sort. I took him out with a shot to the head with the gun that had the silencer attached. When no one came running- because even silencers make noise- I eased open the door and slipped inside. I had chosen the correct door. This one was the very bottom of the stairs leading up. I made my way as quickly as I could while keeping the noise to a minimum. It took me less than a minute to reach the halfway point where I encountered the next guard. I managed to get a shot off before he saw me, but this time the sound attracted the guard from two floors up.

"Oi!" he shouted as he saw me and began to draw his weapon. He didn't even get it out of the holster.

Idiot.

His cry did attract more people, though. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could before they caught up to me. I unloaded the last of the rounds of the silencer before pulling out the Sig. That brought my murder count for the day up to 7, and it left 8 more people in the building, probably not including Moran and the elusive Christopher.

I made it up the last flight of stairs and eased the door open. The walls were lined with doors, probably to apartments, and all their doors were closed.

Except the door at the very end of the hall. How obvious.

I made my way down the hall slowly. I could hear Sebastian's voice, still talking to the camera as though he was speaking at me through my phone. I approached from the side of the door and checked, quickly around the corner. There was man standing at a camera, his eyes fixed on the action in front of him. He was tall, muscular, bald, wearing a polo and khakis and thick rimmed glasses and I found myself wondering how the fuck certain people managed to get themselves into these kinds of activities.

Sebastian was slicing small cuts along Sherlock's ribs. There was blood dripping down, but they didn't look too deep from the quick glance that I got. He was also naked at this point.

I glanced around the corner again, noting how the scene still hadn't changed. Moran actually had the knife hanging at his side, offering me the perfect chance to fire without the possibility of his knife slipping against Sherlock. Perfect.

I took a deep breath, turned the corner, exhaled, and fired a shot straight into Christopher's back. He was on the ground in an instant. Moran took Sherlock's hair in his hand again, pulling his head back to expose his neck, and brought the blade up to it.

"Well, well, Doctor Watson. At last we meet."

"Oh, you did just start calling me by my first name. There's no need to resort to pleasantries now, Sebastian. I can call you Sebastian, right?"

"Of course, of course. I must admit, you caught me off guard. It's been, what, half an hour since I started streaming the video feed to you?"

"It was simple, really. Child's play."

I saw his hand drop, just a little, as his face started to turn a lovely shade of red. He really thought he had me. His pride. That would be the best point of attack, then.

"I specifically chose this place because of its location. It is plain. It looks like it could be anywhere in London. I even swept him for bugs, tossed his phone, switched cars-."

"You've lost your edge. Or did you just... never have one? I mean, Moriarty was the brains of the operation. You were just a lackey. You were nothing."

"Don't you dare speak to me like that. You know nothing!"

"Touched a nerve, eh? It's true, though, isn't it? I mean, all the while you were running around, killing people, blowing things up, being a good little errand boy, you didn't actually think he cared about you, did you?"

"How dare you!" He finally made the mistake I had been counting on.

"Did you actually think he _loved_ you?"

He pulled the knife away from Sherlock's neck to point it at me.

I shot him in the arm first, and he dropped the knife. Then I aimed for his kneecap. That one brought him down to the ground. I walked over to him, stood above him, looked down.

Looking back, perhaps I should have felt a bit more guilt, a little compassion. Perhaps I should have been the better man in the situation.

Perhaps he should have kept his fucking hands off Sherlock.

I unloaded the 4 bullets into various parts of his body- one through his foot, the other kneecap, his groin, his stomach. He was trying to scream, his mouth working, moving around the blood that he was spitting up.

"Pathetic."

I put the last bullet through his forehead. The noise stopped. It was better than he deserved.

I took my knife from my boot and cut the rope that was holding Sherlock up. It wasn't until he was in my arms, until I could run my hands through his hair, press my face against his chest, that I allowed myself to believe that he was real. He was there. He was breathing. He was speaking, a constant litany of my name and platitudes.

"John, John, I knew you would come for me. John... I knew you'd be here. I knew you'd stop him. Thank you, thank you, John. Thank you..."

I wanted to kiss him, taste him, wipe away every single trace of Sebastian Moran that I could still feel lingering on his skin.

Then three things happened simultaneously.

1. I felt Sherlock stiffen against me in a warning that came just a few seconds too late.

2. I heard the resounding bang of a gunshot.

3. There was the far too familiar sensation of my flesh being torn apart in that particularly vicious way that only a bullet can manage.


	12. Chapter 12

**_Sorry it took me so long to update. I turned 21 last week and spent Thursday-Saturday nights getting rather plastered, so I do hope you forgive me. The next chapter I post (probably also tonight to make up for the lack of posts the last few days) is going to be the epilogue. As much as I hate to say it, the story has run its course and it's almost over. _ _I also wanted to note that I made a change to the opening paragraph of the first chapter to fit where things have gone. This is still a work in progress, even once it says it's complete, because I am my own beta. Makes things a bit rough to catch them the first time through. Hope you forgive me for that too. _ _Well, without further ado, read!_**

The sight of blood blooming across the front of my shirt probably should have been worrisome. Instead, it seemed like a mild inconvenience. There was pain, sure, somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, but it was disconnected. I couldn't quite remember what had caused it. We had been on a case, something about a drug ring that was getting increasingly more violent. I remembered the chase, frantically searching for Sherlock because he had, once again, run off on his own. I remembered pushing the door open to the building, the sound of shouting, screaming, something hard and unforgiving tearing through my back. A bullet, of course.

But it didn't seem to matter all that much.

Well, that was, until Sherlock brought his hand down across my face.

"John. John, listen to me. You need to stay with me. You can't do this. You can't die on me. I just got you back, don't do this. Don't do this to me. I need you. Damn it!"

Everything faded to black, then swam back into focus. There was lots of shouting, but it all sounded like I was hearing it from underwater.

"John," my name sounded hollow, coming from above me. I realized someone was holding me and looked up. "John."

I had never heard Sherlock's voice sound like this- desperate, sad, I didn't know he could feel sadness.

"The ambulance is just around the corner, John. You need to keep awake. Do this for me, John, please. Please, just keep your eyes on me."

The last time he said those words to me, I watched him fall from the rooftop of St. Bart's. The pain of the memory shot through me just as my shoulder rebelled against the torn muscle again. I must have made a sound because Sherlock was now shouting at someone- Lestrade or Mycroft, perhaps- to get the medic. Seeing him coming apart made me start to panic, then I realized what I was really seeing.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

That's what he said that day, and then he fell.

"Please, keep your eyes on me."

That's what he said as he held me and my blood soaked into his skin and stained his hands just as his did to the pavement outside of Bart's, and I realized I was witnessing a very different type of fall.

Sherlock Holmes had gone and fallen in love with me. If I died before I got to tell him that I felt the same, I'd be so pissed off.

So of course, the world chose that moment to go all topsy-turvy.

'Please, God,' I prayed, just before everything faded back to black, 'please, let me live. For him."

When I woke again, it was in a darkened room. The only light was from the hallway just beyond the mostly closed door to my room. The smell of antiseptics and chemicals and blood filled my nose and I realized it must have been a hospital. Unless it was some sort of cruel joke, I had managed to stay alive.

I turned my head to the right to take in the rest of my room (small, private, clean, nice, probably Mycroft's influence), and found the lovely addition of one Sherlock Holmes slumped over in his chair, his arms folded under his head, resting on my bed just by my hip. His curls were a disaster, no doubt from running his hands through them in that exasperated way that he always does when he's stressed out. I couldn't resist running my fingers through them, careful of the IV that was stuck in the back of my hand.

He stirred slowly then came awake all at once, much as he had that morning after the first night we had slept next to each other. I couldn't resist smiling at the memory. He took my hand in his.

"Oh thank goodness, John. You're awake. I thought- we didn't know- we almost lost you- I didn't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

I tried to speak, and it took me a few tries. He was still rambling on about medical procedures, how I had only been unconscious for 24 hours, Mycroft's response to the situation. Finally, when I had my voice, I squeezed his hand and he stopped talking to look at me.

"What's wrong? Are you in any pain? Should I get someone-?"

"Would you shut up?" I croaked. "I'm trying to tell you something important here."

His mouth closed with an audible snap and he nodded for me to continue. If I knew him at all (which I was proud to say that I did), I would say that he raised his shields, bracing for impact.

"I love you."

That made his mouth fall back open. I had the pleasure of watching the shields not only drop, but the sight of multiple emotions flitting across his face while his mouth moved but no sound came out.

"John," he said finally, pulling the neutral mask back over his face. "You were shot because of me. You almost died because of me. If I hadn't been so stupid, if I had just killed Moran, or not gone out by myself, or just never came back-."

"Idiot," I said, cutting him off.

"Well, that's what I was trying to get at, yes."

I chuckled and it hurt so badly, I decided I was never going to do that again.

"Not what I meant. I've loved you since you told me it could be dangerous. It is dangerous, and it's fucking fantastic too. So, unless the feeling isn't mutual, I don't want to hear another reason why I shouldn't love you come out of your mouth, 'k?"

He brought a hand up to cup my face- his cool fingers providing a nice respite from the feverish feeling I had- and I saw him searching my eyes for any clues as to my intentions. I laid myself bare under the scrutiny, and whatever he did or didn't find there had one of his secret smiles pulling at his features, softening his eyes, dropping his masks.

"Oh, John, what on earth am I going to do with you?"

"Love me? Kiss me? Both?"

He laughed and pressed his soft lips to my chapped ones, and when he pulled away, it was only enough so he could meet my eyes again.

"I didn't think it was possible, you know."

"Hm?"

"To love. I didn't think I could. I was told so often that I didn't have a heart that I believed people. It was easier not to care. It was easier to shut off those emotions, to pretend I didn't care, but then you came along. When I was off hunting Moriarty's men down, I spent the first few weeks telling myself not to think about you. If I thought about you, I would get distracted from the task at hand and I would fail and then I would never see you again. It was easier to wait.

"But there was a night, somewhere just outside of Lyons, when we were tucked into tents against the cold, sleeping for the first time in weeks, that I stepped out for a cigarette and looked up at the stars and I remembered the look on your face when I told you that I didn't understand the solar system. I carried that thought with me the next day as we made the raid. No matter how hard I tried to push it out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried to fight the sentiment, I couldn't get the sound of your voice and the wonder it held out of my mind. I fought harder that day than I had the entire time I had been gone. It was then that I realized they weren't hindrances, these thoughts of you, they were motivation.

"The first time I was back in London, about a year after I had left, I broke into the flat and stole your dog tags and wore them every single day after that. It was a constant reminder, more so than the thoughts, more tangible, of what I was fighting for. I didn't care if you took me back. I didn't care if you never wanted to see me around. I only wanted you to be safe. I needed you to be safe. It took me until the day I came back to the flat for good, saw you there, saw how much of a wreck you were, that I realized the reason I had fought so hard for you was because everyone had been right. I never had a heart, not until you came along, and the thought of you breaking was more pain than I could handle."

I wiped a tear from his face that he hadn't realized had fallen and wondered just how I had gotten so lucky.

There was a knock on the door, snapping us out of the moment. It was a doctor, trailed closely behind by Mycroft.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, good to see you awake," the doctor said and turned the light on. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired, stiff, sore. And thirsty. Am I allowed some water?"

"I'll go get you some," Sherlock said and was out the door before the doctor could even answer.

"Well, that settles that," she said and shook her head. "Yes, you're allowed to drink. You should be able to eat too if you want to give it a shot."

My stomach rumbled in response. I hadn't even realized I was hungry until she said something. "Yeah, that would be good. Thanks."

"Your speech is good. The anesthesia has been worn off for a long time, and we're giving you an alternative to morphine. It seems to be keeping the pain at bay without muddling you up too much. All good news."

"Sherlock tried to explain to me what the procedure was when I came to, but I was a bit too happy to be alive and all to listen to him..."

"Not to worry. The bullet entered from the posterior side, through the scapula. It was a clean wound as far as they go, about 4 cm to the left of where your file and the scar from your time in Afghanistan say you were hit. It exited through the front, nicking Mr. Holmes' upper arm on the way out, but not causing any real damage there. It doesn't look like there's going to be any permanent damage. You'll have to go through the same sort of physical therapy that you did after Afghanistan."

"Thank you," I said.

"Is there anything else? I would like to have a word with him before my brother comes back."

"I'll be back in 5 minutes to do some tests now that you're up, but you can chat before then. I'll try to keep your brother at bay for a minute."

Mycroft nodded in thanks and shut the door behind her when she left.

"I wanted to thank you, personally, for what you did for my family yesterday. I know that I seem rather cold to you, and I know that you think I don't care about Sherlock, but I do, very much so. I told you the very first time that I met him that I worry about him constantly. I was telling the truth. More than that, I love him dearly. You saved his life, and I'm realizing that it may be in more ways than just the obvious. I thought for a very long time that my brother was going to slip back into his old habits. I thought that I was going to finally get the call that he had overdosed and was lying dead in a morgue and that I had to come identify the body. Something changed in him that night that you shot the cabbie for him. I think he realized that there was someone out there who would honestly kill for him, that someone could care enough, and it's my fault it took him so long to see that he was worth all that and more. Love is a chemical defect, John, but I think you've proved that it isn't always found just on the losing side of things. I wanted to thank you for that, as well."

The door opened before I got to say anything, and Sherlock brought a pitcher of water and a glass to the table next to my bed.

"Here. I tried to get bottled since I know you prefer it, but this is all they had." He poured a glass, put a straw in it, and held it for me. I went to take it from him, but he slapped my hand away and held it in place while I drank from it. It was heaven, and I had to remember to pace myself before I finished the whole thing. "Mycroft, if you're done now, you can leave."

"I just wanted to fill the Doctor in on the details of what happened."

"Oh, don't worry about that," I said. "It's obvious."

Both men turned and looked at me with raised eyebrows.

I sighed. "By the time I reached the top floor, your men were already coming in behind me. They swept the lower floors, taking care of any of Moran's men that I had missed. I'm guessing that I didn't quite manage to hit Christopher with a kill shot. When he saw what I did to Moran, he must have been extremely angry and used his last moments to try and kill me."

"Very good, John."

I found myself blushing stupidly at Sherlock's compliment, "Thanks."

"Well, that's all then. I'll be in touch, John." He set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Try to get some proper sleep tonight, brother?"

"Is that... sentiment?"

"Never, disgusting thing, that," Mycroft responded and, unless they were very good drugs the doctor was giving me, I swear he winked at me before turning on his heel and leaving.

Once the doctor had come back and ran her tests, I was informed that I would have to spend the night again but that I would be able to head home the following day. I missed 221B more than I thought I could, so I was very happy to hear the news.

"Are you spending the night here again?" I asked Sherlock when the doctor had left.

"Yes. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Come up here though."

"We both won't fit, John."

"Would you just get up here?"

I scooted over as much as I could. The IV had been taken out of my arm in favor of oral pain medication, so without that in the way, I was able to wrap my arm around his shoulders. He tucked himself under the blanket, rested his head on my good shoulder, and put one of his legs over mine to keep himself on the bed.

"I love you," he whispered, and my heart tightened up.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

I kissed the top of his head and drifted off to sleep.


	13. Epilogue

**_Well, my loves, this is it. The final installment of Mouthfuls. It's lots of smutty and fluffy goodness. Thank you so much to all those who have commented, left kudos, and viewed my work. It all means so much to me._** **_Keep an eye out for my next fic. I'll probably start working on it over the next few days._** **_Also, don't forget to pop by my tumblr and say hello. I don't bite, I promise (unless, you know, that's your thing!)_** **_ .com_**

When I reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock was fumbling with the door to the flat. We were both out of breath, laughing hard, running high on the adrenaline of a solved case ending with a nice little run away from the Yard before they caught us in the museum surrounded by broken display cases. There was only so much we could explain off, after all. They'd know it was us, though. I mean, why else would there be a jewel thief tied up in the middle of the floor with a blue scarf and nothing missing from the displays?

I finally pulled the keys out of Sherlock's hand and opened the door with ease on my first try. I only laughed harder at the ridiculousness of opening a door being the one thing of the whole night that tripped up the great consulting detective.

He cut my laughs off with a nice little shove into the flat, the slam of the door behind him, and the wind being knocked out of me when he pushed me against the wall and crushed his lips to mine. It was so nice that he was back to touching me. It took him a full month after I was shot to do anything besides snog me, a month into physical therapy before I was able to touch him back, and it wasn't until after my physical therapy was complete and my doctor gave me a full bill of health including an accommodation for my dedication to getting full mobility back in my arm before he let me fuck him into the mattress again.

God, I missed that feeling.

This case took us a full three days, only napping here and there, taking quick meals on the go, but it felt like it had been weeks since we were able to relax enough to really enjoy each other's company.

He pulled my jacket off, letting it join his on the floor, and tugged at the hem of my t-shirt. I gave up on the jumpers, mainly because of the way he looked at me when I wore clothes that showed off the physique I managed to keep up with, even after so long out of the service. He stuck with his button ups, meaning I was always shirtless before he was. I think that was on purpose.

When my shirt was on the ground, I swapped our positions, pushing him against the wall and holding him there with my hips. I could already feel him, hard against me, and I ground my own erection into his. It brought a rather delicious sound out of his mouth and I found myself biting at his lips, trying to taste it. I undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt, yanked it down, cursed when it met the resistance of the buttons at his cuffs, but divested him of it shortly all the same. I trailed kisses that would leave bruises down the side of his neck, down his chest, made a particularly lovely mark next to the one that was fading, right above his heart. My teeth grazed his nipple and his sharp intake of breath made me bite just a little harder. His hand went to my hair, fisted there, and pulled my mouth back up to meet his.

He steered us so that we were walking toward the bedroom- our bedroom. I let him lead the way, let him push me down on the bed. My belt slid off easily when he undid it, my boots came off quickly when he realized they were in the way, and my jeans and pants followed them in short order. He made his own trail of kisses that started at my lips, moved down my chest, lower, lower...

"Jeesus, Sherlock," I moaned when he took me into his mouth, down to the hilt, and back up to lick just the head of my cock.

I wondered vaguely what kind of couple we were that our aphrodisiacs consisted of solving crimes, getting shot at, and running from the police.

He did a thing with his tongue that made me wonder why the fuck I ever thought I cared. I was getting far too close, far too quickly, and let him know as much. We switched places, me getting him undressed the rest of the way, leaving more kisses, more marks, getting him close. When I pulled away, he whimpered.

"Why did you stop?"

"I'd much rather you came inside of me tonight, love."

It had been months, months, and I still wasn't used to hearing myself say things like that. Some part of my macho, ex-Army pride rebels against the idea of having some other bloke's cock inside of me, but I just reminded that small part of my brain that it was quite literally the best feeling in the entire world, that I enjoyed it more than I enjoyed fucking any woman I had ever been with, and that kind of shut it up.

The look on Sherlock's face when I asked him to fuck me helped quite a lot. He went purely predatory, calculating, figuring out which position would work best for whatever mood he was in and what he knew I wanted. He always knew precisely what position I wanted the most.

"Get on your back, John."

I swear, he purred my name. It was a direct line to my cock and I responded almost too eagerly. He took the tube of lubricant that sat unabashedly on the night table and took his position between my legs. He brought his mouth to me again as his hands worked to take the top of the lube, spread it on his fingers, and soon enough I felt the flash of cold before it warmed up to body temperature. He slid two fingers inside of me, something I wasn't entirely expecting, but the pain was so close to pleasure, I couldn't tell them apart. When they curved upward, I cried out. I felt him smile slightly, his lips currently wrapped around me. It took him a few strokes for me to realize that the reason it was so insanely pleasurable was that he was timing the movements of his hand to coincide with the movements of his mouth, and every time he pressed against my prostate, I found myself unable to breathe.

I barely felt it when he added a third finger, working me open just a little bit more before pulling his hand away and replacing it with himself. He slid inside of me quickly, no preamble, and it was the same sensation of pleasure-pain that made my head spin. I dragged my nails down his back, felt the tension there, and realized he was holding himself back from taking me the way he wanted to.

Idiot.

"Let go, Sherlock," I said, realizing I had to say those words far too often. I would have to work on that with him. "Please, take me, fuck me, however you want. Please."

"I want it rough, John, but I don't want to hurt-."

"Well, perhaps I want you to hurt me. Make me sore. Make it so I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. Make me yours."

I wasn't entirely sure where that last bit came from, but the reaction it had on him was something that I was cataloging for future reference. He sat up, his hands gripping my hips. I couldn't focus long enough on anything besides the sensation of skin hitting skin, stretching, bruises forming in the shape of his finger prints on my waist.

I realized I would be able to get off just from him fucking me alone if he kept this up, so when he reached for me, I pushed his hand away. He got the message and smiled, his predatory look shifting into something smug and sexier than I thought possible. He leaned down over me, putting one hand on the bed next to my hand, the other wrapping gently around my throat, and he shifted the angle of his thrusts so they hit my prostate every time he pulled back.

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm so close, please..."

He sped up his thrusts and tightened the grip on my throat (since when had I developed a choking kink? when did he realize I had one? did it matter?).

"Come with me, John, come now."

Oh, fireworks are such a cliché, which is why I'm so happy it was more like a nuclear bomb, even taking into consideration the fact that I probably wouldn't survive the fallout.

We laid there for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes before he broke the silence.

"You're never allowed to leave me, John."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

"No, I mean it. Never. I swear, I'll keep you prisoner. Mycroft has resources-."

"I thought we'd agreed to never, ever say his name while we're naked in bed together."

He chuckled a bit. "Sorry, sorry, but honestly, I have connections. I won't let you leave."

"I know."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"How are you so okay with this?"

"Because I'm planning on marrying you, so I already know I'm not going to leave you."

"Marry... marrying me?" his voice cracked. I could hear a slight edge of panic in his tone, but it was overridden with pure shock. Perfect.

"Yup. The second you get over your aversion to signing legal documents, that is."

"Are you proposing marriage to me, Doctor Watson? Now? While I'm still inside of you and we're both covered in semen and our cuts and scrapes from the case we solved haven't even been taken care of yet? You probably got blood on our sheets, from that cut on your shoulder, you know."

"I forgot it was even there, to be honest, but yes, Sherlock, I'm proposing to you. Come covered, bleeding, and thoroughly sated and fucked by you. It seemed like a metaphor for our life. Very fitting. You still haven't answered my question."

He was quiet for long enough that I actually began to worry, despite his fingers drawing their absent-minded patterns over the scars on my shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been surer of anything in my life."

"Yes."

"Really?"

"I thought you said you were sure."

"I was sure that I wanted to marry you, but I wasn't sure you'd say yes."

"I need someone to make me tea for the rest of my life."

"You impossible git!"

He grabbed my hand that I was playfully swinging at him in the hopes of smacking him on the arm and pinned it to the bed above my head. He took the other and held it there, wrapped in the long fingers of one hand while the other traced a line from my temple, down and across my jaw, finally over my lips.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, quieter this time, serious.

"Yes," I said, meeting his eyes.

"Could be dangerous."

"I count on it."

"Then, yes, I'll marry you," he replied, his mouth pulling into the softest, most genuinely content smile.

And he kissed me, hard.


End file.
